


Tight Grip

by xTammyVx



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: (but seriously just sleeping), Bisexual Male Character, Bisexuality, Closeted Character, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Explicit Sexual Content, First Time, Fluff and Angst, Fluff and Smut, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Porn With Plot, Porn with Feelings, Secret Crush, Sexuality, Sleeping Together, Suicidal Thoughts, TW: Zayn talks about being a bit suicidal earlier
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-17
Updated: 2013-09-08
Packaged: 2017-12-23 18:44:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 25,685
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/929817
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/xTammyVx/pseuds/xTammyVx
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They’re just sleeping together, not even having sex, but it’s a bigger deal than that.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

“I’m not gay, I’m not gay, I’m not gay,” Niall chants, the heat of his skin blending into the water and he momentarily wonders—hopes—that if he stays like this long enough then he’ll flush down the drain, too. “I’m not gay I’m not gay I’m not gay.”

He says it because he needs to hear it; he’s straight, a happily heterosexual lad, and yet just one door over is the nude boy that he, equally nude, woke up with. It’s not even Niall’s shower. He jolts at that, slamming down the handle. Angus has washed himself in here, and this is his _house_ , and suddenly the stripes on the walls are veins that pulse sickeningly with every rotten truth.

_He’s not gay, but—_

“Niall, mate, don’t use up all the hot water. I stink.”

He says it again and again, although quieter, because if he says something then it’ll be true. It’s worked so far; he’d said that he’d go on X Factor, and he did; he’d said that he’d become a famous musician, and he is; he’d said that he’d go on a world tour, and he will _again_ in just a few days.

So long as he says it, everything will be alright, and he won’t be gay.

Niall goes straight back to the bedroom where he woke up at two in the afternoon all hangover-woozy, even though he’s sure that he’s going to projectile vomit all over the carpet that feels like hot coals under his feet. His clothes are crumpled on the floor.

Angus’ room is small, with a queen bed wedged as tightly into the corner as it’ll go, pinned between a bookshelf and a wardrobe. Usually, Niall would’ve helped himself to some clean boxer shorts before he trudged back home, but no. Not this time. He barely notices the rank tang of teenage boy on his T-shirt as it’s pretty much the standard fragrance of Angus’ house when his mum’s away on business things. It’s probably for that specific reason that Niall had burned and fizzled out here after a night of whiskeys in the park that Fi’s older brother had bought them as a “Welcome Home” gift. He casts a weary glance at the duvet tucked into the bottom of the bed in a heap, kicked away in the heat of the night since Angus had had the heater blasting as soon as they’d stumbled in.

Angus’ eyes float up as Niall lowers himself onto of the crummy breakfast-bar chairs. Bruised shadows from his hangover are punched deeply under his eyes and the sleepy-sand isn’t yet wiped away. This is about the time that Niall would’ve said something about how fucked up he looks, and Angus seems like he’s waiting for it, blinking stupidly when Niall mutters instead, “I feel like shit.”

Rather than burrowing them both into a further slump, Angus gives a grunt patented by hungover teens worldwide and slips an omelette onto a plate. Black crests the outer rim of it but Niall wolfs down half the thing in seconds, even the rotten cast of morning-after horror apparently not enough to damper his love for anything edible.

He feels a little better afterwards. He shouldn’t—not with all the bullshit leaking around the small kitchen area and sticking to his skin—but food has this weirdly tantalizing effect on him. Sometimes, in the throes of a good pudding, he wonders if he’d ever really need to be drunk again, or if eating could have the same result.

The metal clasp on his throat tightens when he looks down at Angus’ legs, bare but for a layer of hair that’s sort of blond on his thighs and dips into brunet around his calves. Angus is a bit lanky, the hair on his head sleep-greasy and curling up around the nape of his neck with a flick. Niall swallows with shame. Angus doesn’t even _look_ like a girl.

“You sleep alright?” he asks. It’s a stupid question, brain fizzled after a stupid night and a stupid decision to crawl into bed with one of his best mates.

Angus nods, turning the knob on the stove and piling what started out as another omelette and is now just scrambled eggs into a bowl. He squeezes a dollop of tomato sauce into the centre. “My bum hurts a bit, though.”

For a second, Niall thinks that this is it; he’s going to die, choking on a burnt-ish omelette after fucking his friend in the arse, until it manages to crawl out of his throat with a mix of spit and coughing. He _kak_ s and thumps his chest with a tight fist until he can exhale, washing the bite down the sink that he’d spat it into. Eyes burning, a stinging burn that he feels he deserves, Niall swishes back a tall glass of water that’s speckled with dirt.

“Did we really…?” His voice is fucked, wrecked and dry, and he doesn’t look at Angus. He wants to remember, doesn’t want to have to ask, wants to crack in half and bleed out.

A bubble of startled laughter bursts from Angus’ usually deep voice. “Shit, Niall, no!”

One brow raised and the other scrunched down, the older boy listens as Angus rattles on;

“You were really pissed, weren’t you? Even if I’d wanted to, you could’ve gotten your chap up for J Lo if she’d _begged_ you for it!” he crows, Niall’s pride dwindling with each word. He thinks that he might be sick.

Because he had honestly thought that they’d… He would have, is the thing; if Angus had offered, if they’d been dicking around and one thing had toppled into another like a drunken Jenga tower, he would have gone down on him, sucked him off and screwed him senseless.

He isn’t gay.

He’s not.

 _But_.

* : ・ﾟ❧ ﾟ・: *

* * *

* : ・ﾟ❧ ﾟ・: *

The train trip is lonely, grey faces dug deep in newspapers or cast white by laptop screens. Niall’s only got his iPod, a carrier case of clothes and snacks, and a guitar case at his feet, which he’s not allowed to open because then the _tutting_ will begin.

He slots himself into the window seat, tugging a jumper from his bag to place under his feet, shoes abandoned to the floor. He leans back against the glass, intent on spending the next two hours _not_ sleeping and _definitely not_ thinking about Angus. Angus, who isn’t even that good-looking, with his nose slightly crooked from a punch landed by an ex-girlfriend, and teeth too big for his mouth. It’s sort of sweet in that Ireland poster-boy kind of way, but he’s not what Niall likes, not his type.

He wants to slap himself and bury his face in his hands. He shouldn’t even _have_ a type. Straight boys don’t have _types_ for other boys. And, even if they do, they don’t _fuck_ those other boys. They stand up tall, kiss a girl, and realise that lads aren’t half as good.

He can’t let himself be alone for the rest of it, he decides, because then the great Not Gay battle will begin and he just can’t deal with it right now, and maybe never, and sweet relief blossoms inside him when he catches a pretty girl’s eye from across the carriage. She blinks away first, lips catching into a shy smile that she fights half-heartedly. Her friend rustles around to get comfortable in the little space she’s offered, wedged into the booth by two others.

The Coke, coffee, and an orange juice from the morning catch up to him, mind reveling in the opportunity. He winds a finger through his hair, sweeping it to the side as he scoots out of the booth, brushing smoothly through the aisle, nodding a silent hello to her.

The giggling drifts through the carriage, a few adults casting their eyes about to see what’s going on.

She’s bold, this one. Niall notices her vacant seat on his way back, and the sneaky grins riddled behind her friends’ mouths as they avoid his eyes. Instead, she’s opposite _his_ seat, book in-hand, already making herself at home.

* : ・ﾟ❧ ﾟ・: *

* * *

* : ・ﾟ❧ ﾟ・: *

Nat is very bright, a real stunner in the brain department. She’s Liam’s wet dream. She plays the piano, and has a dog, a lovely lab called Possum who runs away sometimes to get muddy _on purpose_ just so that he can have a bath. She’s good for a laugh with a way for words which Niall places on the stack of books that she’s filled her suitcase with. They talk about _Harry Potter_ and _How to Kill a Mockingbird_ , and Niall doesn’t tell her that the latter is the only book that he’s ever finished.

Couched quietly at the end of their two hours of conversing is a shy smile as her phone lights up.

“This is sort of embarrassing,” she begins, leaning over the table, “but my tosser of a best friend over there, she thinks that she recognises you. Are you… famous?”

He’d introduced himself as Nick, which wasn’t very creative of him, to say the least.

“I was on X Factor,” is all he says.

Fortunately, that’s all he _can_ say, because she’d timed it well enough so that his answer comes just before the call for her stop. She smiles apologetically and writes down her name, telling him to add her on Facebook. Niall doesn’t say, “I don’t have a Facebook.” He smiles and says, “I will.”

And then it’s back to thinking about Angus.

* : ・ﾟ❧ ﾟ・: *

* * *

* : ・ﾟ❧ ﾟ・: *

“ _I dare you to kiss Harry._ ”

“ _C’mon. A nice one to the cheek, Lou._ ”

Niall watches Louis giving in to the goading, squeezing his eyes shut but the crinkles in the corners giving away his grin. Harry lunges and turns his back on the camera, looking like he’s giving Louis the snog of a lifetime while the others’ laughter roars so loudly it tweaks the video’s sound.

“Fuckin’ brilliant,” Zayn snorts, turning to Louis. “Two thousand views in five minutes.”

Dropping down with a damp cloth for poor Louis’ fat lip—a result of Harry’s mad charge, no doubt, although Louis’ sharp eyes have secured the death of anyone who says so—Liam slings an arm around Louis, giving his shoulder a squeeze.

“It was funny, though, Tommo,” Liam assures him in that way that Liam can and does. “Even though it was live.”

“Oh, Louis isn’t mad about it being on a live feed,” Niall shoots, lobbing his own grenade in. “He’s just sulking because it only lasted five seconds.”

“I ought to be ramming a closed fist between your legs, Styles,” Louis calls, but a small grin is tugging helplessly at him now, sneaky and pixie-like. He adds quietly, “Yeah, it was a bit funny.”

Harry props himself against the doorway. “What was that? Are you done being a sad sack, yet?”

Louis rolls his eyes, cloth still pinned to his mouth, and shakes his head dramatically; “Fine, I was a rotten sport and a knob, and it really hurts,”—Zayn smirks as Niall murmurs, “The lip, or the apology?”—“but I’m willing to forgive you.”

Harry’s eyes get so big that Niall can see a sliver of white around his full irises before the youngest in the bus huffs and turns on his heel to stalk back to bunks. Instantly, Louis is hot on his trail, telling Harry how selfless he’s being by agreeing to let Harry say sorry. Niall hears “knob-head” chucked back and forth a few times.

“Do you ever wonder if they really love each other?”

Liam tucks into himself at his own question, watching the door as though he expects Louis to come barging back in, summoned like Bloody Mary. Niall looks to Zayn for some kind of answer, fearful of putting his own words forward. Sure enough, Zayn offers a small shrug, which while unhelpful, buys Niall time.

“Of course they love each other,” Zayn replies. “We all quarrel, but it’s just flat-mate stuff. At the end of the day, I like to think that we all love and let go of it.”

“Aw,” coos Niall, rubbing Zayn’s thigh, “a beautiful boy with beautiful words.”

“No, I mean _more_ than that.” Liam cranes his neck, playing look-out. “Like how Dani and I love each other.”

They go over a bump, drinks quivering in their mugs atop the small coffee table.

“Do you think that either of them like men, though?” Zayn murmurs.

Niall’s Cheeky Comment Opportunity senses are tingling. “Harry’s got the mouth for it, hasn’t he?” he points out with a lick of his lips.

Pinky-red blooms on Liam’s face and creeps down his neck like a flash flood. He unsuccessfully tries to hide the sudden change in shade behind his mug of hot chocolate, chugging it back until every drop is gone. A deep swallowing sound is lost in Niall’s thick laughter booming through the slender room only equipped with a sofa and a small telly playing _The Inbetweeners_.

“No, seriously,” Liam tries again. “Do you not think that maybe they’re into each other, just a bit?”

Niall’s nose scrunches up. “Harry’s not gay. Not with the girls he’s pulling.”

“Could be bi,” Zayn ponders. “There’s no way to know. We can’t ask them without putting them under pressure, and most lads don’t take too well to having their sexuality questioned.”

“Slip the Kinsey Scale into a conversation.”

“Kinsey Scale?” It’s getting interesting, now, and Niall feels like in some warped way they’re talking about him as well.

Liam’s shoulders tighten and drop. “Basically a measurement on your sexuality. One is ultra straight, and six is ultra gay.”

“So you’d be a one,” Niall says slowly, pointing to Liam—who nods—and then Zayn, “and you’d be a one.”

“Three.”

“What’s that?”

“Three,” Zayn repeats, looking Niall dead in the eye.

A thin silence veils over them, roaring in comparison to the telly. It’s strange, because Niall… He thinks that he’s relieved.

“So you…” Liam’s voice teeters off into the quiet.

“I like boys as well,” Zayn clarifies. He looks testy and just on that pretty side of dangerous, brows hitched higher but eyes still as calm as ever. “Is that a problem?”

“No, not at all,” Liam says, at the same time as Niall splutters, “Fuck, of course not, Zayn.”

“Good, ’cause I wouldn’t’ve done a thing if it was,” Zayn says like he doesn’t care at all.

Niall can see it, though, see the weight that’s tumbled off of Zayn’s shoulders, and he knows how hard those words must have been, how brave Zayn is. The burn is in his throat, his want to have the truth boil over and blurted out to his best friends is nearly _suffocating_.

“Good on you, man,” he grins instead, before he hops off to his bunk that night, planting a kiss onto the wing of his cheekbone.

“Thanks,” Zayn smiles, a sort of silent understanding calm in the bus.

* : ・ﾟ❧ ﾟ・: *

* * *

* : ・ﾟ❧ ﾟ・: *

Niall hadn’t seen it coming, still isn’t sure if he believes it, and he _wants_ to.

It’s just that, aside from his shoes and his touchy-feely stuff and his _bloody hair_ , Zayn is so straight. Niall looks at Zayn across the sofa and thinks, “ _No_ ,” and then goes back to staring mindlessly out the window, seeing guys he thinks are cute, wondering if they share a taste. He never asks, though. The nerve to talk to Zayn about it, when he’s had one pint too many, buckles and starves itself in Niall’s throat. He just can’t do it. Every stereotype that his parents and his friends have pricked into him twist and curl under his skin.

There’s no point. They both wear tank tops, skinny jeans, and have a copy of _Nuts_ magazine in their respective bathrooms. Niall thinks that they’re both just too straight for each other, and sometimes cries about it after _five_ pints too many, because

_Excuses_

_Excuses_

_Excuses._

* : ・ﾟ❧ ﾟ・: *

* * *

* : ・ﾟ❧ ﾟ・: *

It’s bad for the band, Niall knows. It’s okay when it’s Harry and Louis, because their crushes aren’t _real_ , as they had been quick to clear up two nights later after a few steady beers.

Zayn being so okay with it, and knowing that the others are equally okay, makes the transition between _not gay not gay not gay_ to _okay a little bit gay_ easier, but it’s only a red-hot poker prodding into his back instead of a white-hot knife up his arse. Either way, he’s not quite secure, although he likes to think that he’s getting there.

It’s bad for the band when his crush swells and bloats in the pit of his gut until he has to wank it off and Zayn’s name is on his tongue. He hates it, hates himself, hates being in love with Zayn.

It’s worse for all of them when he starts fucking up because of it. He tries not to. He says things that are stupid, gets all blushy and weird in the plain view of the world, and it’s all captured in HD. Liam gives him odd glances and Zayn—totally, utterly, painfully oblivious—pats him on the back and says, “It’s all right, man. You’re just tired.”

Being touchy-feely onstage is great, and he even sneaks a few snuggles in on the bus, or back at the hotel, pretending to pass out on Zayn’s bed, in his arms, cuddling up tighter when Zayn nods off beneath him.

Just when Niall thinks that he can’t go further down this path of self-destructive love-sickness, he starts to notice things. They’re stupid things, things he wouldn’t have—couldn’t have—noticed if he wasn’t looking at Zayn more than anyone else. It starts when Zayn puts on a tank top with a scooped neckline that’s sinfully low on his chest, exposing the inviting bow of his collarbone, begging for lips to trace it. The crush hitches with drifting touches, the softness on his face when Harry tells them that he’s single again, and Zayn cooks something amazing that none of the others can pronounce, because Harry likes it. Then he begins to watch Zayn’s hands when he lights a fag out on the balcony of their—well, _Zayn’s_ , but Niall had slumped onto the sofa and woken up in Zayn’s bed in the morning—hotel room, one cupped protectively around the tip as the fire catches it. He sucks on the end, cherry flaring, and instead of exhaling he lets the smoke tumble from his lips and get plucked away by the wind. If Niall could stand the smell of smoke, he’d be out there. He’d be elbow-to-elbow with Zayn, watching him practice such a daft habit that looks deliciously, horribly beautiful when it’s him.

Zayn likes to pour the milk before the cereal, to avoid sogginess.

Zayn puts a little bit of product in his eyebrows to stop them from going bat-shit crazy.

Zayn rubs the back of his neck when he’s feeling down.

_Zayn Zayn Zayn._

Zayn moans on-stage that night, a raw and broken sound that resonates throughout the arena as Liam massages his shoulders, much like when he’d done Harry’s. It’s fucking hilarious, and the fans’ shrieks block Niall’s laughter out of his own ears. He Googles it later, watches the videos, finds an isolated MP3 clip of it and his cock thickens in his trousers; he kicks himself for being Niall Horan _from_ One Direction having a fan-crush on his own fucking band mate.

What’s started as a hopefully fleeting fancy has snowballed, pummeling down a slope and into a ditch with Niall trapped inside like a guinea pig in a plastic ball. He feels thirteen again, a stupid age that’s perfect for silly crushes, not nineteen and not even a virgin but lighting up with warmth inside his chest at any given opportunity to touch Zayn.

 _Stupid stupid stupid_ and _shit_.

* : ・ﾟ❧ ﾟ・: *

* * *

* : ・ﾟ❧ ﾟ・: *

It sucks when Zayn’s with Perrie.

Movie time, all of the boys bar Niall and their respective girls wedged into one massive living room that suddenly feels too spacious, and Harry’s already snogging his girlfriend. Louis prods him in the shoulder and tells him to piss off because they’re making sloppy noises through the best parts. Harry looks hazy, lips full and red, large hand strategically but not subtly over his own crotch as he sways to his feet and leads her away.

Zayn’s less of an issue, murmuring and smiling at Perrie, giving her such an adoring look, eyeing her mouth. They peck smooth, dainty kisses onto each other, and sometimes she tugs on his bottom lip and he has to inhale carefully to keep himself grounded.

“Alright, you lot,” Niall says loudly, bouncing up from the sofa. “I’m going to go, because as much fun as being the _seventh_ wheel is, I’d rather just rub one off and go to sleep.”

“He’s not immune, you see,” Louis explains to Eleanor when she looks somewhat surprised and sympathetic.

“Immune?” Danielle repeats.

“Cooties,” Louis sighs, patting Eleanor’s hand as he shakes his head lowly and she looks away like she’s embarrassed by him, stifling a giggle. “The only cure is a good shag and, well,”—his eyes cast pitifully to Niall, who’s not sure why he’s hanging around just so that Louis can take the piss—“Nialler’s just not getting any, is he?”

Any other night, Niall could take it; he’d make a face and laugh because Louis, he loves Louis, he idolises Louis, has a doll of him back at home. Everything’s just a bit too much right now, though.

“So full of it,” Niall mutters.

Perrie’s so nice, so funny, so sweet, and her laugh is like wind chimes. Niall had fancied her once, before she and Zayn had gotten together, _way_ before Zayn had made love to her, the only tell-tale sign a used condom in the bin. He was so quiet, though, and didn’t say a thing until Louis went in to borrow a shirt and noticed.

Niall wishes that Louis had kept his big gob shut.

He wants to like Perrie; he wants to be able to see her and see _her_ , but all he sees is her and Zayn, her and the boy he can’t be with because he’s got a girlfriend and the band and the everything.

He just can’t.

* : ・ﾟ❧ ﾟ・: *

* * *

* : ・ﾟ❧ ﾟ・: *

Niall sleeps in an empty bed that night, shucking the covers untucked on both sides to make it feel less so. He tries to forget that he’s the only one not sharing.

At some point in the night, Louis slams his fist on Harry’s door, shouting to him to stop being so bloody loud, which puts a stupid smirk on Niall’s face. He’s next, getting a soft knock on the door thirty seconds later. Classically Louis, he opens it anyway when there’s no answer.

“Niall, you still awake, mate?”

Some mid-sleep, jumbled garble is muffled into his pillow, Niall looking up through hooded eyes like he’d been asleep the whole time.

“Just coming by to make sure you’re alright,” Louis whispers.

“Yeah, yeah,” Niall nods. “I’m good.”

“Sorry for being a bit of a knob earlier.”

Niall stares hard at the silhouette in his doorway, fuzzy around the edges where the hallway’s golden light blushes around him.

“Eleanor sent you, didn’t she?”

Louis pouts. “She wouldn’t let me sleep on the bed until I apologised.”

“Ugh, you’re such a whingey dickhead.” Niall buries himself in the blanket again. “Fuck, fine, I forgive you. Go get some.”

“I’ll do it in your honour,” Louis promises, and Niall is certain that his grin could blind someone, even in the dark.

“Gross. Please don’t.”

“Hey, there’s nothing _gross_ about my sex,” Louis protests, right as he dodges a pillow to the face. “Good night, Nialler. Love you!”

Niall mumbles something that sounds like _love you too_ but could have been another four-letter word entirely.

* : ・ﾟ❧ ﾟ・: *

* * *

* : ・ﾟ❧ ﾟ・: *

Sleep chases him but falls short each time, retreating as he wriggles into nothing but more duvet. There are no hands, no other arms to curl into or accidentally bump against, no other breaths hitching and sighing. At one point, Niall cries a little, damp on his pillow to smother himself rather than the noises. He’s a pretty quiet crier. He’s grown up never, ever, _ever_ wanting anybody else in the house to hear him, and things aren’t so different now.

He’s just about to tell Louis, “ _Piss off_ ,” and “ _I don’t want to hear about how glorious your shag was_ ,” when the door cracks open and it’s not Louis. Niall knows, because Louis’ figure is a lot curvier, with a bum that Niall may or may not have gotten off thinking about. The person in his doorway is lanky, peering in with a timidity that Niall knows.

“Who’s that?”

“Zayn.”

Niall nods. “What’s up, mate?” He hums a little at the end and trawls off into a yawn.

“You wanting company?”

“Sure.”

Zayn lifts Niall’s legs for him, scooting them to the left side. Zayn only ever sleeps on the right.

“Why are you not with Perrie?” he asks once Zayn has snuggled in, forcing the words out like they’re poison. The truth is that he doesn’t really care. He’s just glad that he won’t be lonely.

Zayn clasps a hand behind his head and gives himself a squeeze at the base of his neck. “She went back to her hotel. She said that she wanted to stay, but Jesy’s feeling a bit poorly, so Perrie’s going to make sure that she’s alright.” He turns onto his side to face Niall. “Is that okay with you?”

Something stirs low in Niall’s belly, and he doesn’t think it’s the pizza he scoffed before Danielle put in _Snatch_. “’f course. No problem.”

“I don’t like sleeping alone,” Zayn mumbles, and Niall can’t see if his eyes are still open, but his voice is heavier.

“You don’t have to. Come and find me. Any night, I don’t care.”

“Really?”

“Yeah.”

Zayn swallows, hand drawing away from his shoulder. “You don’t mind the spooning?” he asks quietly. He’s got a blush in his voice, a shy edge so uncommon when it’s just the boys. The last time Niall heard it was around Perrie.

“The spooning?” Niall cracks, grinning like an idiot.

Zayn back-hands Niall’s chest. “Shut up. Sometimes I wake up, I’ve moved around, and I’m spooning you, alright?”

“Oh, well, I must’ve slept through it.” It would explain how Zayn never managed to get up for a piss without waking him. “I don’t mind, though. You can if you want to.”

The smile blooms in the quiet, light as feathers. “Okay.”

So Niall rolls over, tucks his knees up a little, melting when Zayn’s arm drapes over his side, bites his lip at how perfectly Zayn fits against him, curves and bends aligning.

“G’night, Niall.”

“Nighty-night, Zayn.”

“And, you know… Thanks.”

It’s wrong.

It’s wrong but it’s Zayn and it feels so good.

Niall finds that he doesn’t care anymore.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was going to post this a week after the last chapter bUT THEN I GOT THE MOST AMAZING READER WHO WROTE A BEAUTIFUL COMMENT And so I lost the will to wait and now we're here.

“Oh, good, you’re awake.”

Well, he’s been awake for a while yet, melty-soft under the duvet and Zayn’s wrist on his waist.

A thin strip of sunlight burst through his bubble of sleep, a yellow triangle where the top of the curtains don’t quite meet. He’d gently tugged Zayn’s arm a little closer, tucking himself into bed again and attempting to nod off.

Zayn’s having none of that, though. The temptation of a morning smoke beckons him back to his own room, leaving Niall with the smell of his hair and deodorant. However, Zayn comes back to Niall’s, tipping two cigarettes from the carton; one for having now, and another behind his ear.

“Alright?” he nods to Niall.

Niall squeezes his eyes shut, head bobbing slowly in response.

His hip is a bit sore from being laid on the whole night through. Worth it, he thinks. His body creaks as he rolls onto the other side, getting a whiff of Zayn and his spicy cologne that gives his morning wood an extra kick. He tugs some sweats over his black boxer-briefs (adjusting his dick discretely) and plants his open mouth against the window, blowing up his cheeks until Zayn looks at him and almost inhales the nearly-done cigarette resting between his fingers.

“I’m going to have a shower,” Niall says through the glass when he’s done laughing, brushing the sleep from his eyes.

Zayn nods, butting out his cigarette on the ground and toeing it over the edge.

Harry shows up in his room while Niall’s having a tug, and he only knows because Harry pops his head into the bathroom to say good morning even though it’s twelve o’ clock, all giddy and bouncy. Niall’s never been so happy for a shower curtain, even if they _have_ all seen each other’s bits and bobs at one point or another.

Surprisingly, Harry’s still there when Niall gets out and, even more surprisingly, so is Zayn.

“Someone’s chipper,” Zayn comments, drawing the last suck of his cigarette before he chucks it away, shutting the sliding door behind him. Louis follows suit once he’s done taking in the view of buildings and yellow cabs, apparently invited to the party in Niall’s bedroom.

“Morning sex is good,” Harry replies dreamily, splayed out on Niall’s bed with his feet hanging off the end. “I got laid _twice_ in one hour.”

“‘Laid’?” Niall repeats with a scoff.

“Ooh,” Zayn teases, falsetto in full swing. He suddenly slips into Pakistani, cooing, “Look at you, all proper-American and that, getting _laid_ , riding in _elevators_. Hey, maybe you’ll be wanting a _soda_ later.”

“I think this calls for _The Inbetweeners_ , _Misfits_ , and _Downton Abbey_ in the bus.” Rushing over, Louis presses the back of his hand beneath Harry’s curls, ignoring Harry as he tries to swat him away. “Ah, yes, and maybe some BBC radio channels.”

Niall turns his back modestly to them as he gets dressed, ignoring Zayn’s low whistle at how pale his bum is.

“Like a lily,” Harry claims.

“You can look at my front, if it’d reduce the risk of blinding,” Niall offers, spinning on his heel. He clutches a singlet to his willy after flashing them a peek, but all three boys hold up their hands with matching “ _Whoooa_ ”s and roll their gazes to the opposite wall.

As Niall tugs up his underwear and jeans, Harry smirks, “It’s nothing we haven’t seen before, but thanks for reminding us that there’s so much of it to be proud of.”

“Seriously, that thing could hurt someone,” Louis claims, shaking his head.

“What can I say?” Niall shrugs. “I’m a shower, not a grower.”

They all have a good laugh until Eleanor shows up in the doorway, saying, “If you lot are done talking about how amazing I am in bed, Paul says that you’re all to be down for breakfast.”

“Oh, diddums,” Louis pouts, snapping his fingers, “and I was _just_ about to tell them about that thing you do with your lips.”

Eleanor looks unimpressed.

“You know… _Smiling_.” He’s got his Shit Eating Grin dial turned up to “Full”; Harry snorts and that earns him a smack from Louis. “Get your mind out of the gutter, filthy boy,” he tuts indignantly.

Harry shoves him back as they all pile out of Niall’s room, leaving him to do up his belt. He tips his head up at the sound of footsteps approaching his room again.

“Did you mean that stuff, last night?” Zayn asked. “Not minding if I sleep in your bed and that?”

“Yeah,” Niall grins, praying that it doesn’t show just how much the _not minding_ turns into _actually liking_ turns into _hoping it happens every night_.

Zayn nods, “Cool,” and trots off down the hallway.

* : ・ﾟ❧ ﾟ・: *

* * *

* : ・ﾟ❧ ﾟ・: *

Zayn and Niall tease Harry relentlessly throughout breakfast—well, lunch—about _chips_ and _candy_ and _flight attendants_ , Harry’s girlfriend looking expectantly to him.

“I have no idea,” he says simply, though the glare he shoots his sneaky friends says otherwise.

“Dani’s coming on the bus with us, so all of you are to be on your best behaviour,” Liam warns when Danielle gets up to go to the bathroom.

Louis looks severely disappointed. “No fart-offs, then? I was really looking forward to that.”

“You’re so full of shit,” Zayn cackles as Harry turns nearly purple with embarrassment. He doesn’t usually take these things so seriously, only Niall gets the idea that he’s _really_ trying to impress this girl. He can see why; she looks about five or six years his senior, so poor Harry’s probably trying to prove that he’s not a monkey like Louis. Niall loves Louis like he’s a god or something, but really, there’s no arguing that he is a bit of a knob at times.

Unsurprisingly, said monkey takes a separate lift for him and his girlfriend. They’re on the top floor (!!!) so Niall reckons that Louis has enough time for a long goodbye snog before they have to jump into the bus.

Niall’s heart loosens when he spots the box sets waiting for them.

“ _Sex and the City_ , Liam? We’re not watching it _again_ ,” Harry groans, pushing the stack over as he flops out on the sofa.

“Well, I should think not, considering your severe case of Americanism, but I don’t think that Liam’s going to be watching much of anything,” Louis shrugs, hinting with his eyes to Liam and Danielle, eager to get dibs on the big bed.

Harry shakes his hair and smoothes it securely across his forehead. “I _was_ going to Skype my mum, but I don’t think I want to risk it with you lot still awake and those two, well…”

“…making sweet, sweet love?” Louis offers, much to the other’s disdain.

“He’d better change the sheets,” Zayn mutters, opening the chilly bin for a beer. “There’s no way I’m doing it.”

“So much for Bradford Bad Boy, you Prima Donna,” Louis quips, picking and peeling at the peace before the bus is even moving, edges curling for a road trip that’s going to be undoubtedly squabbly.

* : ・ﾟ❧ ﾟ・: *

* * *

* : ・ﾟ❧ ﾟ・: *

Sure enough, the beer doesn’t quell Zayn’s need for a cigarette, making him grouchy, Harry resorts to listening to his iPod and snoozing away on the sofa, and Louis and Niall walk in while Liam’s napping as Danielle goes to get a drink, steal his clothes and bag, and use it as a foot rest.

“We’re doing him a favour,” Louis insists to Zayn, who looks at them like he can’t believe they’re not caged between shows. “He’s a teenage boy, more or less, in the nude, alone with his incredibly beautiful, but not as beautiful as mine, girlfriend for another five or six hours. I don’t think we’ve ever done anything more selfless.”

Usually, Liam would have just jogged after them, in the nuddy-pants (Louis’ words) or not, but he feels the need to up himself on the Mature-o-Scale when Danielle’s around, so there’s no sign of him. They do, however, hear a low moan an hour into _Sherlock_ , and a higher pitched one just five minutes afterwards.

“Which one do you think was him?” Niall asks.

At around twenty five to two in the morning, they all dribble off to their bunks, peaky and rubbing their eyes, pretending that the urge to yawn isn’t tickling their throats. There’s a light bustle to the bathroom but Niall cleverly finds the sink, scrubbing his teeth until he can’t taste the weak American alcohol on his tongue anymore, nearly knocking into Zayn’s chest on his way out.

“It’d be a bit of a squeeze,” Niall says when Zayn gazes longingly at the blond’s bunk. However, he doesn’t sound like he’s making an excuse; it’s rather like a warning, a “ _Don’t say I didn’t warn you_ ”-type lilt to his voice.

Zayn presses in first, compacting himself as much as possible so that Niall can crush against him. Niall’s knees poke out the side, and he has to force himself up to get Zayn’s duvet as well, but once they’re settled, it’s a nice fit.

“You’re so warm,” Zayn mumbles, a little hum breathing through his tone.

Very glad that the possibility of getting a full-blow stiffy at Zayn’s hot breath on the nape of his neck has been squished by the wank he’d had earlier, Niall smirks.

“Same to you, Zayn. G’night.”

* : ・ﾟ❧ ﾟ・: *

* * *

* : ・ﾟ❧ ﾟ・: *

Niall doesn’t know what he’d expected the others to think, because he doesn’t consider it to be a big deal and, as it turns out, neither do they. Paul only asks if it’s still worth getting two separate hotel rooms if they’re just going to share one, to which Zayn’s cheeks flare up and Niall says, “No, I s’pose not.”

Zayn’s cigarette count bounces back considerably, and Niall feels a sense of pride swelling brightly inside him, nearly glowing when Liam points out that Zayn’s been cutting down ever since he stopped sleeping alone.

Everything becomes sort of surreal; it’s all gotten to the point where Niall can pretend that they’re real, together, and he can almost _touch_ his fantasy with a goodnight peck to his cheek from Zayn’s always-warm and silky-soft lips. The lines blur and he can’t bring himself to plunge into ice and remember that it’s fake, that he is, in a pathetic and selfish sort of way, _using_ Zayn. When he’s really pissed, he argues that Zayn’s also using _him_. In the depths of his heart, though, he knows that it’s not the same.

They’re just sleeping together, not even having sex, but it’s a bigger deal than that. Niall knows that it is for Zayn, too, even if it’s not a romance thing. Zayn looks so content in the mornings, ticking down to just four cigarettes a day, and sometimes none at all. He eats healthier, he’s not so grumpy, he goes to the gym, and he just looks _happy_.

Niall clings to and pets that simple truth like it’s everything.

* : ・ﾟ❧ ﾟ・: *

* * *

* : ・ﾟ❧ ﾟ・: *

“I always forget how much the receipt grows at the supermarket when you show up.”

“That’s because you buy boring food,” Niall tells his mum, scooping up some things and dropping them into the trolley.

“And you buy things that we’ll never eat before you leave,” she bites back, putting at least five of the items he’d picked up onto a shelf.

Niall loves his mum; he likes the good nature beneath their relentless teasing and the way her house smells. He likes when she cooks (and when she tuts and sighs because he can’t) and the drinks she pretends that Niall and Greg aren’t having secretly in his room.

“Are we just going to survive on sweeties for the rest of the year, then?” she asks.

“Of course,” Niall grins, fishing his buzzing phone out of his jeans pocket.

“You’re going to melt into those things one day.” Maura gestures to his trousers, a pair of chinos with a low crotch.

He smiles cheekily through it. “But not today, apparently.”

His thumb slides across the screen automatically, darting out his code. It’s Zayn, and it’s—Niall spares a glance at his watch, that he hasn’t changed since he came home from America for the week—seven in the morning. Wow.

_Hope you’re having fun with your fam x BUT NOT TOO MUCH FUN. Skype me tonite?_

“Is that your girlfriend?” Maura asks, pretending that she can’t see Greg slyly slipping in some ridiculous party hats.

The phone gets tucked away deep into his bum pocket. “I can’t believe you’re still going on about that. She’s not my girlfriend. She’s just someone I like who has a boyfriend.”

“And you’re not to make a move while she does, you hear me, Niall?”

“Yes, Mum. I promise.” He offers his littlest finger. “Pinky-swear.”

She takes it, curls hers around it, and kisses his cheek. “Good boy.”

Greg pipes up then, arms lugging an Everest-high mountain of junk food, and points in the opposite direction of the trolley, saying, “Mum, look over there.”

She does, of course, rolling her eyes and slowly turning her back on them both.

* : ・ﾟ❧ ﾟ・: *

* * *

* : ・ﾟ❧ ﾟ・: *

“You know what I love about Ireland?”

The fuzzy image shifts a little as Zayn sniffs. “What?”

“Everything’s Irish!” Niall grins, holding up his mug. “Cheers to whiskey and hot chocolate!”

Niall chugs it down, not bothering to wipe away the liquid on and above his upper lip. He gets a good laugh for his efforts, even more as he tries to lick it away.

“That stubby little tongue isn’t going to get you anywhere, innit?” Zayn quips through his wide grin.

Niall feigns an appalled splutter. “Well, lad, I’ll have you know that I’ve never had a single complaint from one of the lady kind.”

“What time is it where you are?” Zayn’s still shaking his head as he asks.

Exaggeratedly squinting down at the corner of his laptop, Niall rubs his nose, then states, “One in the morning. Man, jetlag sucks.”

“Yeah,” Zayn yawns. He shakes his head. “And here I am, all alone.” A full pout—bottom lip poking out and all—puckers up on his lips as he lifts his laptop to give a good view of his room. “Wish the boys were all here. I mean, I’m sick of you lot and the bloody endless squabbling and that, and my mates here are great, and it’s fantastic to be with the family, but… I didn’t realise that I’d miss you all so much.”

Niall has to swallow down the things he wants to—and can’t—say. He’d always thought that with Zayn’s quietness came loneliness. He got overshadowed because _Muslim_ and _doesn’t talk enough_ and _boring_ were what popped up first when people met them.

But they sleep with Skype still open, laptops propped open on their bedside table, listening to the familiar breathing as sleep creeps up on them both.

* : ・ﾟ❧ ﾟ・: *

* * *

* : ・ﾟ❧ ﾟ・: *

As it turns out, they’ve all missed each other dearly. In particular, Louis and Harry, who cling to each other through the evening (well, Louis won’t let Harry leave, not even for a wee, so they go into the bathroom together without questioning it, because to question Louis is to question the universe – his ego’s about the same size). Liam even lets Niall win a round of FIFA, which Niall catches and doesn’t mention, cheering for himself. A beautiful, wonderful smell starts to fill up the whole bus, hypnotising all of them until Louis admits smugly that he’s managed to not fuck up their tea – a celebratory parmesan-filled chicken wrapped in ham, which he gets a massive, sloppy kiss on the cheek for.

“Stop it, Niall. You’re slobbering on me,” Louis groans, but a smile works its way up and surfaces proud and triumphant.

“What’s a little slavers between mates, eh?” Niall grins, heart skipping at the sight of Louis’ marvelous creation being drawn out of the oven. Oh, it is a thing of beauty; the sides glisten with the fragrance of salt and Heaven, ham curling at the edges, crispy-brown beneath tasty juices.

“Niall looks like he’s in love,” Liam snorts.

“Or he has the weirdest stiffy ever,” Harry is quick to add.

They can take the piss all they like, because Niall eats his tea moaning and thanking God for uniting him with Louis.

“You alright over there, Zayn?” Niall asks. “What’re you eating?”

“Spicy chicken, and it’s beautiful,” he says proudly in his best Pakistani. “You should all be super jealous of my spicy chicken.”

Harry’s pinning back his wavy hair with a headband when he asks, “Who’s on clean-up?”

“Give a man a minute, Styles,” Niall murmurs. “I’ll do it in ten minutes or som’in’.”

Zayn dries, Niall washes (after lugging his heavy arse and full tummy off the sofa), and neither mentions that Zayn’s bed will be untouched come morning. Instead, Zayn brushes Niall’s arm with the backs of his knuckles, kind-of sort-of stroking him as the he's drying off his hands, and says, “I’m thinking it’s going to be an early night for me. What’re you going to do?”

“Harry’s made pudding,” Niall tells him apologetically.

A soft, shy smirk curls at Zayn’s lips. “That’s alright. I’ll be in your bunk, yeah? Wake me up when you’re gonna come in.”

One episode of _Misfits_ (that Louis’ sister gave him) turns into four, and by the time Niall’s had a quick wank and is barely threading one foot through the leg of his pyjamas bottoms, Paul is calling them, telling them to get their arses into bed before he stops the bus and cracks their skulls together.

Harry’s already naked, the tattoos littered across his body not seeming to fit his beer-softened yawn as he rubs his eyes and blinks at Niall, mumbling whatever kind of goodnight his sleepy brain can manage.

Niall ducks his head into his bunk. Zayn’s out like a light, lips slightly parted, one eyebrow spiked in all directions and the other still perfect. He’s the kind of handsome lad that Niall’s girl friends stalked on MySpace when they were thirteen, while Niall tuned their parents’ guitars. His stubble accents the highlights of his cheekbones and makes Niall turn weirdly gooey in his chest, which he blames on the alcohol and the hour.

“Hey, Zayn. It’s Niall,” he murmurs, nudging back the duvet. Zayn stirs, though barely, realisation brushing through his eyes as he presses back into the wall to make room. Niall’s just rippling Zayn’s blanket over him when he realises that Zayn’s got a… rather strong case of midnight wood.

“Zayn, wake up, you lazy cunt,” he whispers again, a little quicker this time, and Zayn looks confused as to why Niall isn’t clambering into his arms immediately, and grumpy at the second disturbance. Niall gestures downward.

It wakes him up more, but only by a little, nothing better than words tilted by a slur. “Oh. Shit. Sorry, mate. Do you…” He bites his lip.

“I mean, I’ve just seen Harry’s knob and arse, so if you just want to jimmy yourself around, I’ll still…”

Zayn gives a little shrug and nestles back down, arms open expectantly. “If it’s alright with you.”

Strongly resisting the idea of tucking his bottom into the cup of Zayn’s hips, making Zayn gasp, making Zayn _harder_ , Niall swoops his duvet in over them both. His heart catches in his throat when Zayn nuzzles into his neck.

Niall nods off a lot quicker than when he was at home.

* : ・ﾟ❧ ﾟ・: *

* * *

* : ・ﾟ❧ ﾟ・: *

Harry’s up first, bum on full display as he stumbles between the bunks to go to the bathroom. At one point, seeing such a fit guy flaunting the toned muscles in the nud would have made Niall’s cock twitch. It’s just Harry, though; he’s seen it—rubbed off to it, even—and now it’s just an everyday thing, another part of his routine. The boy nearly smacks right into Liam, who has a toothbrush hanging out of his mouth as he attempts to get the others up and doing.

“Hey, guys, up.”

Niall groans, Zayn tightening his arm protectively.

“Fine. I’ll have the first shower, but then you have to be out of bed. Deal?” Liam asks, reminding Niall of his mother.

With a huff and a begrudging nod—and a mumble of “Twat,”—Liam is satisfied, slinging a towel over his shoulder as Harry trots out from the bathroom. His brain’s leaked out overnight apparently, and though it’s a struggle to get the packet open, he gets two Pop Tarts in the toaster before collapsing face-first in his bunk.

Niall shuffles, crumbles when Zayn grunts and tugs him closer.

“Liam’ll be out soon.” His voice is dry, still thick with sleep. “You know how he is. Quick showers. Efficient little fucker.”

A sigh blown through Zayn’s nose ripples down the Niall’s back. “Don’t wanna get up. ’m cosy.” The ground cracks beneath Niall’s headspace, chipping when soft lips press against one of the knobs in his spine. “Missed you so much, Niall.”

Whether Zayn likes it or not, he’s waking up more and more with each movement, fingertips dragging over the front of Niall’s shirt. His heartbeat hitches as the fabric brushes across his skin, warmth seeping through from Zayn’s hand, gently curled and stroking his stomach and sides with slow, tender sweeps. Niall swallows, traces his own hand over Zayn’s, lets it rest there, and prays that Liam gets shampoo in his eyes so they can stay like this.

* : ・ﾟ❧ ﾟ・: *

* * *

* : ・ﾟ❧ ﾟ・: *

He doesn’t. Liam, true to his ecologically-aware character, emerges from the steamed-up bathroom like James fucking Bond, towel secured around his waist.

“C’mon, Nialler, you promised. Get up.”

Zayn’s snoring softly in his ear, so Niall manages to get himself out, and all Zayn does is pout in his sleep and roll over. A low whistle pries apart the sweet moment as Liam looks up from pulling his socks on. Niall clamps a hand over his dick.

“Morning glory,” he says with a shrug. Liam’s eyes dart to Zayn, brows raised in disbelief.

“Anyone want Pop Tarts?” Harry calls, gingerly picking his own out in an attempt to not get stung by the hot pastry.

“Wash your hands first,” Liam sighs.

“And then put a couple in for me,” Niall adds, scooping up a folded towel from the table.

Hot streams burst out of the shower head, instantly bleeding out the remnants of doziness with the thick scent of Liam’s mango body wash. Temptation has Niall reaching for it, but he shrinks back, aware that the smell of Zayn is still dusted through his hair. It’s wood-smoky, not the rank stickiness of cigarettes but, like, marshmallows burned over a roaring fire on a night deep in winter.

Deliberately avoiding washing his hair, Niall works his way through his shower routine, pacing it out to save Zayn from getting up any earlier than he absolutely has to. Maybe he’ll still be all entangled in the bed when Niall gets out, moaning with a whine tagged to the end when he’s told that he has to go and have a shower. Zayn gets really whingey—adorably so—when it comes to rolling out of bed.

Niall comes imagining himself fucking the sulk out of Zayn in a bout of rough morning sex.

There’s a dreary quiet during breakfast-making, three lads stumbling around in a state that could easily be mistaken for drunkenness, another still sleeping, and Liam chipperly chomping down an obscene amount of porridge. At least Harry’s got a pair of boxer-briefs on, now, so that’s a start. Niall throws on some black pants, trousers, and a jumper—it’s Louis’, actually—and rocks Zayn’s shoulder until brown eyes squint up at him.

“Mate, you have to have a shower. Do you want anything to eat?”

Zayn does his moan-whine, unintentionally pouting. Liam stands, placing his bowl in the kitchenette, and observes from the doorway.

“I feel a bit sick,” Zayn grunts quietly. “We got pain-killers?”

“Liam?”

“Under the sink. Harry, could you get that packet in the First Aid kit? Yeah, that one.”

“Has he washed his hands?” Zayn’s voice veers into a low croak. Niall pushes back his hair and _wow_ , he’s unsettlingly warm. “I’m not taking those if they’re from the same hand he’s touched his balls with.”

A quick glance to Harry has the boy cheekily gripping his cock through his pants, adjusting as he hands over the packet. Niall props up a pillow for Zayn to lean—slump—against as he tosses them back dry.

The movement of his head makes him wince, thin drops prickling and wetting his lashes. Niall rushes off for a damp face cloth, calling out, “Ring Paul.”

Zayn clutches the cloth to his forehead religiously, crushing his knees to his chest. Niall sits at the foot of his bed, stroking his shin. Zayn blinks up at him when Niall hits the lights off, seemingly loosening the steel cables riddled through his body.

“Alright, Paul says that we’re going to pull up to a hotel in an hour,” Harry tells Liam quietly. “Should we move him to the big bed?”

Liam nods carefully. “Go and get it sorted, Niall,” he says, slipping his arm under Zayn’s.

“C’mon, mate.”

Zayn shrugs him off, pulling himself up with the same kind of grunt that Niall hears his grandpa make when he does, well, _anything_. “I can do it.” Despite his staunch face, he starfishes on the bed that’s been made roughly but made nonetheless. He grimaces but looks calmer, even when Louis steps out of the bathroom, sees them all huddled around his form, and asks loudly, “What the fuck did I miss?”

* : ・ﾟ❧ ﾟ・: *

* * *

* : ・ﾟ❧ ﾟ・: *

“You have a shoot tomorrow, getting back in the game after your trips home,” Paul announces, quietly as to not sting Zayn’s skull too much. “Don’t any of you even _think_ about getting sick as well, alright?”

There’s nodding all around, assuring Paul that, yes sir, they’ll definitely be up for it and, no sir, they won’t catch any of Zayn’s germs. It’s a migraine, actually, but the point still stands.

“And clean this place up, for Christ’s sake,” he adds, eyeing the lunch plates cluttering up the kitchen counter’s surface, “ _quietly_.”

Harry (clothed) leaves with him, off with Louis to do a radio interview. Looping an arm around Zayn’s slim hips to guide him gently down the hallway, Niall murmurs soothing rubbish into his ear as he stumbles, vision not quite peachy. He inches Zayn down onto the bed where Liam’s pulled back the covers.

“I’ll wash, you dry,” Liam says, untying Zayn’s shoe despite his protests.

“I’m not a baby, guys. Just a headache, innit?”

“Aw, but no need to strain you,” Niall grins, dropping one of his Converse to the carpet. “And, no, Liam, _you’ll_ dry.”

Eyes opening lazily and squinting at them, which reminds Niall to turn off the lights, Zayn mumbles, “You’ll come back, Niall, yeah?”

Niall doesn’t like the way that Liam looks at him then.

“Yeah, Zayn. Try to get some sleep while you wait.”

* : ・ﾟ❧ ﾟ・: *

* * *

* : ・ﾟ❧ ﾟ・: *

Most of the mess just gets slung into the dishwasher, aside from some things that won’t quite squeeze in, and three pizza boxes teetering dangerously on the corner. Liam stacks them neatly beside the bin before bunching up his sleeves and taking the first plate handed to him. A low hum floats through the clatter of dishes against each other, which Liam realises is Niall, some traditional Irish song that he sings in the shower sometimes, or even in the car home if he’s drunk enough. The tune switches after a few minutes, deepening.

“… _and I will walk five hundred miles, and I will walk five hundred more_ ,” he lets out, a half-arsed, lazy trawl to it.

“ _Scottish_ ,” Liam muses, slipping a fork between the pinch of the dish towel.

Niall drums out the beat, tongue flicking for each “da”, not skipping a single one, like it’s coming right from the heart.

“Such deep meaning,” Liam teases.

A lopsided grin snuffs out the song for now. “Shut up. It’s beautiful,” Niall says, foot tapping against the hard floor to restart the beat. “ _When I’m walking, oh I know I’m gonna be_ —”

“— _I’m gonna be that man who’s walking hard for you_ ,” Liam sings along.

“So you know the words, huh?”

“ _And the money_ ,” Liam continues instead, “ _’cause for the work I do I’ll pass almost every penny onto you._ ”

It’s a nice feeling, doing chores; Paul knows that the boys need them, even if they don’t necessarily _like_ them.

“One Direction definitely has the funds,” he’d said, “but I would really prefer for you to continue as you are, doing an occasional clean-up. Your parents agree that it’ll keep you grounded. So,”—he’d looked over them all—“I won’t tell them about the general shit you lot get up to, if you do the dishes, clean your rooms, all of that boring rubbish that you’d rather just leave. Deal?”

And even if Niall will groan and trudge through to the kitchenette, having something so mindless, requiring no real effort and placing no stress upon that already blooming through the rest of their insane lives, is quite relaxing.

“Almost done,” Niall says halfway between _I’m On My Way_. “Two pots to go.”

Nodding, Liam tips a glass upside-down on the drying rack. “Are you going back to Zayn’s room?” Niall’s head bobs, lips going down at the corners like he doesn’t really mind. “Don’t snuggle up too much, not when he’s sick.”

“It’s a migraine. They’re not contagious.”

“We _think_ it’s a migraine.”

“Yeah, well…” He shrugs. “We don’t, like, _snuggle_. We just sleep together.” He pauses and backtracks. “Like, literally _sleeping_. No funny business.”

“Niall,” Liam says carefully, visibly flicking through the wide vocab installed in his brain for the right way to say it. “You know that I love you, and I love Zayn, and I’m as open-minded and accepting as the next guy, but don’t you think that you two are going beyond the, uh, _call of duty_ , as friends?”

“What’s that got to do with accepting? Liam, I told you, we’re doing fuck-all other than just snoozing and I don’t see anything wrong with it.” Niall tugs the chain, a soft roar bubbling up as the oily, murky water starts to sink.

Liam’s hands shoot up like he’s on the bad end of a gun, a reflex to diffuse the defensiveness brewing in Niall’s sharp tone. He slings the tea-towel over his shoulder as he does so. “I’m not saying that at all, mate, just that… Zayn’s not straight, you know? I know that he’s got Perrie, and he’d never cheat on her, but maybe having you with him every night is a bit of a… distraction, or a temptation, so to speak.”

Niall bursts into startled laughter; “We’re talking about the same guy, right? Jesus, fuck, no, Zayn’d never… If you were sleeping with a girl some nights, just sharing a bed, would you pull her, even with Danielle back at home?”

Guilt blushes up his face, a not-subtle-enough shade of pink crawling right down to his collarbone.

“Well, I wouldn’t actively— I wouldn’t think about it, you know? Something would be bound to happen, though. Two people alone, in a bed, in the dark. It’s warm, it’s intimate, you’ve got hormones, maybe…”

Niall doesn’t know what to do with this. It’s another moment, a sickening time where his ears listen and scream _no_ but his mouth shoots off bullets that splatter across everything.

“I’m not gay, Liam. I don’t want him like that!” he hisses angrily. “Honestly, I’m so sick of— Just stop it, alright?”

There it is, though, gathering in Liam’s eyes in a sudden and terrifying splash of realisation. Niall backs off, arms firmly secured over his chest, jaw tightening and unclenching. He can hear his own heartbeat pounding away in his temples. His breath shudders in and rushes out.

Liam hears the lie so cold and crackled on Niall’s tongue. Ashamed, Niall lets his gaze fall.

“Niall, mate…” Liam sighs, arms opening. The younger boy doesn’t budge as he’s hugged, until Liam squeezes him tighter and he can’t help himself, leaning into it. His forehead finds the crook of Liam’s neck, warm with the heat visible in his face as he swallows back the clump in the back of his throat. It’s the easy weight of Liam’s arms pinning him in. It’s the warmth against the damp of his back as he lets everything unfold.

It’s two minutes in the embrace before Liam pulls pack and sees the angry drops dribbling down Niall’s face, and then a cup of water and a Coke before Niall’s eyes find Liam.

“I’m not gay,” he says first, a quake catching his words as his throat tightens again.

Liam nods. “I know.”

Niall nods back, taking another big gulp of Coke. Liam gentles him into the living room, a large, plush space more posh than Niall had ever dreamed he could so much as step one _toe_ in, when he was younger. Slowly uncurling on the sofa and letting his muscles loosen up, the ropes stringing him into a bottle are being sawed away and wringing thin in the quiet. Liam’s patient enough to make a monk swear, Niall reckons, and certainly enough to crack an emotional teenage boy on the brink of another sob fest. 

Instead of crying again, Niall sniffs, sighs, and gets himself a beer and Liam an apple juice. It’s the least he can do since the poor lad is about to play Boy Band Counsellor.

There’s what the boys back at home had said about faggots and gay men being paedos who touch little kids in their vans. There’s the Angus incident and the Truth or Dare kiss and that time that he bought a PlayGirl magazine. There’s sleeping with Zayn and the hope in his eyes and the kisses to the back of his neck.

“He doesn’t mean it. When he says that he loves me, it’s the same way that I’d say it to you, or Harry, or even Louis if he’s not being a right knob. When he kisses my cheek and my shoulder at night, it feels really good. Not like, like _randy_ good, just… It makes me feel wanted.” Loosely pinching the bridge of his nose, Niall’s eyes squeeze shut. “This is all so fucked up. I’m so… I’m such an idiot.”

Liam smirks quietly. “Only most of the time,” he says by way of reassurance. It works. “If you want my advice, I think that you should stop… whatever this is, that you’re doing with him. Sleep in your own room tonight, yeah?”

The suggestion sends an uncomfortably hot fist up to curl around Niall’s heart and yank it into his gut.

“Yeah, Liam,” he agrees, forcing the words out. “What if he comes and finds me?”

Liam thumbs at his bottom lip in thought. He’s clever, always level-headed.

“Go to Harry’s hotel room. He and Louis were going to share, so there are two beds, only Louis is spending the night with Eleanor in hers instead.”

“Okay. Sounds like a plan.”

And Niall doesn’t feel like he’s suffocating anymore, like he can handle this mess he’s made. He’s good at making those, but not as good as Liam at getting others out of sticky situations; Niall thinks that he’s just compensating for his own lack of fuck-ups.

“Thanks, Liam,” he says quietly, “for not flipping out or anything. Just… Could you not tell anyone? Please?”

Making a sort of breath-laughing sound, Liam nods furiously like Niall is some loon who’d just asked if it would hurt if you shoot yourself in the foot.

“Your sexuality is your business, Niall,” he says by way of response. He leans across the sofa and pats him on the knee, giving it a little rub. “Just know that we’re here for you, no matter which bits and bobs you want to shag.”

Niall can’t help the laugh cracking through his lips, suddenly giddy just because everything’s finally out there. Even if Liam hadn’t been able to help, had just shrugged his ridiculously muscled shoulders and said, “Well, sucks to be you,” it’s a massive load off by simply having someone else who knows.

“Could you go and check on Zayn?” Liam asks as he stands and goes to pour himself another glass of juice. “Make sure he has some more of those painkillers, alright?”

Instead of going right away, Niall wraps his arms around Liam’s waist and leans into his back for a while, the smell of soap and mango a comfort in itself. He sighs when he lets go, hands slipping back to his own sides as he contemplates what he’s going to say to Zayn.

* : ・ﾟ❧ ﾟ・: *

* * *

* : ・ﾟ❧ ﾟ・: *

As it turns out, there was no point in thinking over anything to say.

“Turn that fucking thing off, Niall.”

Grumpy Zayn is in full effect and glowering at him until Niall fumbles for the switch again. Only a pencil-thin glimmer dares to shine from a crack in the curtains, proudly sliced into the crème carpet.

“Take these.” His voice is so quiet that he wonders if Zayn hears him at all over the thumping in his skull, nearly has to repeat himself before he finds the pills being taken from his open palm and swallowed. “You were supposed to take them with a glass of water, numpty.”

Zayn sips back what’s left in the cup on his bedside table and flops face-first into his pillow, only to have Niall intercept his lazy attempt at putting the empty cup back.

“You feeling any better, man?”

“Only a little,” grunts Zayn, chugging half of the icy water back the second Niall gives it to him. “My back’s sore. I slept at a weird angle.” He cracks his neck. “Sorry for being a bit of a dick. You lot… You even took off my shoes for me.”

“Any time,” Niall says, hiding the falter in his smile by standing. He can’t tell him, not like this, not when he’s sleeping and mushy and curling up on the bed.

He likes the way that Zayn’s looking at him, though, all beautiful and calm, stubble a shadow over his chin and jaw. There’s a twinge low in his belly as his gaze drifts down right to his toe, hitching on the tattoos scrawled up his arm, and the crotch of his trousers.

“I’m feeling a nap. You up for it?” Zayn asks dozily.

The realisation that it’ll be the last time this happens turns his blood to gravel as he climbs under the covers, waiting for Zayn to curl up against his body. Sure enough, Zayn tucks them both in, kissing Niall’s cheek, his shoulder, his neck, and smiling a small “ _Thanks_ ,” against his skin.

* : ・ﾟ❧ ﾟ・: *

* * *

* : ・ﾟ❧ ﾟ・: *

Slipping out of his arms is surprisingly easy, both physically and in his heart. Dulled by sleep, Niall doesn’t go out with the others for tea, opting to remain clustered in his own bed.

Zayn doesn’t come to find him.

* : ・ﾟ❧ ﾟ・: *

* * *

* : ・ﾟ❧ ﾟ・: *

When he does, they’re nearly onstage, going for a piss before the show. The soap smells so strongly that Niall’s nose crinkles at the invasive scent as he hurries to rinse it off.

“Hey, Niall.”

The boy scrubs at his hands with one, two, three paper towels, determined to soak up every last drop.

“What’s up, Zayn?”

The older boy leans against the wall, hands in his low-crotch trousers that aren’t as baggy as Niall’s, and black rather than beige. He kicks off from it, following Niall out into the dressing room, listening to the twenty-minute calling. Niall chugs down a quarter of the water in his bottle and wishes that it was vodka.

“You snuck off a week ago, and I never got to ask, but are we okay?”

He’s so uncharacteristically frank in his tone that Niall has to listen for an extra beat. He swallows, brows scrunching together.

“Yeah, Zayn,” he lies. The ice on his tongue dribbles into his lungs. “Why wouldn’t we be?”

“Dunno,” Zayn shrugs, scratching the back of his neck. “Just… You’ve been sleeping on the sofa when I come through to your hotel room, and you never come to mine anymore. I always thought that you’d let me know when you wanted the sleeping arrangements to go back to the way they were, rather than leaving me out to dry like a sad prick.”

It hits, then, the blow blunt and hot in Niall’s tummy, an extraordinary ache tweaking his heart strings.

“I’ve just been crashing a lot, lately. I get to the point where it’s like, fuck it, I’ll be a lazy shit and sleep here.” Each false word tumbling out in a string of empty promise burns his throat. Guilt nestles deep in his chest when Zayn looks partly hopeful.

“Maybe we’ll catch a snooze on the bus tonight, yeah?” he asks tentatively.

Niall nods and smiles, and sings his heart out to the fans screaming as he hits a certain note.

Everything’s so completely _fucked fucked fucked_.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Cringes awkwardly*
> 
> This was supposed to be the last part (3/3) but it's not, and so yeah... Sorry. And I was originally going to do one update a week, but now it's become one a day. HTF did that happen???
> 
> Anyway, the next one will legitimately be the last. I just have to decide (SPOILERS!!!) whether or not they do the sex or just the handie/blowie or just a kiss. Anyone willing to help out with that decision, please leave a comment, or go to my tumblr (camozialltea) :] NEED SOMEONE SRSLY BC I CAN'T DECIDE HELP??
> 
> Also, trigger warning in this chapter; Zayn sorta-kinda talks about previously having suicidal thoughts.

Contrary to his word, Niall starts sleeping on the sofa more and more often, until Zayn stops turning up altogether. Niall knows, knows from the rejected look over breakfast, that Zayn feels shitty and stupid but he doesn’t have a clue as to what he’s done to repulse Niall so much. He’s totally innocent in the matter, is the thing. He has no reason to feel bad, Niall wants to say. It’s all his stupid crush because stupid heart and stupid head stuck so far in the closet that he’s practically in Narnia, is what he doesn’t say.

He wants to go back to the way things were more than anything, is what he can’t say.

Liam touches him more often, like compensation. What starts as a rub on his shoulder turns into an arm slung around his waist, a reassuring smile when Niall looks like he’s about to go numb. Even Louis, who Niall has always adored so much that he hadn’t that it possible to look up to him any more than he already had, ups his game to send them all into honking fits of giggles.

“Would you like to tell us about your outfit?”

Zayn shrugs. “The stylist picked it out.”

Louis looks insanely proud, a sly smile curling onto his lips as the reporter laughs.

Perrie isn’t nearly so impressed with that answer.

* : ・ﾟ❧ ﾟ・: *

* * *

* : ・ﾟ❧ ﾟ・: *

“People are going to think that you’re some cheeky, arrogant twat!”

Perrie’s voice spreads like wildfire. They can hear it through the wall and if _that’s_ not awkward then Niall doesn’t know what is. Liam’s chewing his lip as they hear Zayn, a low murmur that they can’t really pick apart into individual words. At least Harry’s out somewhere with his girlfriend; the bickering and squabbling he’s okay with, but outright fighting makes him look like he’d give a lung to have it all stop. Once, when Zayn got _really_ cross at Louis, Harry actually started crying. Niall can’t even remember what it was about, but everyone shut up, because nobody likes seeing such a sweet face so miserable.

Shielding him from the arguments that dribble into the relationship proves harder and harder with each month that goes past. Zayn makes his jokes and shrugs it off. Niall doesn’t know if he actually thinks that they should break up, or if he just _wants_ them to break up.

Either way, it doesn’t matter, because Zayn shows up after a weekend away with her. He looks worse than when he left. His hair is tattered, grey-purple dips scooped under his eyes, and his T-shirt and shoes clash. _That_ is how Niall knows that whatever it is, it’s _bad_.

“I finished with Perrie,” Zayn says quietly, arms not really crossed, more like wrapped around himself. “Just thought that you lot should know before it goes on Perez Hilton or whatever.”

Liam and Harry share a glance, a knowing look that Niall sees and envies.

“Do you want to talk about it, Zayn?” Liam asks carefully. “Or just… you know?”

He’s brimming with a shuddery, nearly uncontainable kind of sadness, where a light glows grimly as he continues to stare at the carpet but says, “Yeah. Back at my room, though.” He turns when Liam nods understandingly and gets up to follow him.

* : ・ﾟ❧ ﾟ・: *

* * *

* : ・ﾟ❧ ﾟ・: *

“I knew,” Harry admits to Niall. “I asked him about it, because, like, all of their arguing was just doing my head in. I hated seeing him so beaten up.”

Niall nods understandingly, though he doesn’t get why he was the only one left out of the loop. He can only assume that Harry told Louis.

“Where’s Zayn now?”

“Off with Liam, having a smoke and a cry in his room.”

Again he nods like it’s just another hitch in their lives.

“You know, I’m not blind, and I’m not an idiot,” Harry states in his quiet voice, the sincere tone that could persuade the President of the United States to dress up as a duck, because it’d be for the good of mankind. “I see that there’s something up with you two, since you stopped sharing a bed. I don’t know what all of that was, and I don’t _want_ to know, but could you just… For us, could you just be, like, carefree, easy-going Niall Horan? Maybe go with him to bed for a few nights? He misses that.”

Letting the best grin he has grace his lips, Niall melts back into the chairs that they’ve got out on the balcony. He tilts his bottle back, swallowing every last drop of dull, American beer, and cocks his head.

“Better?” he asks.

Harry echoes his relaxed slouch, doing his big, pleased smile. “Yeah, much better.”

And, funnily enough, Niall feels good for the first time in a while.

* : ・ﾟ❧ ﾟ・: *

* * *

* : ・ﾟ❧ ﾟ・: *

Zayn’s a right sight when he’s crying.

Once something’s set him off, his bottom lip will quiver, and then he’s suddenly sobbing in big, silent heaves. Somehow, he’s still gorgeous, but it’s the brutal sort of beautiful that drags hot, rusty nails through your insides. Looking at him is cruelty, because he wears his heart on his sleeve until it’s not such a bright world. Then he curls back like he’s ashamed of himself for being caught without a smile pinned to his lips.

Luckily for Niall’s general wellbeing, Zayn’s past that stage by the time he rocks up at his door.

He’s on his bed, legs crossed, with a carton of cigarettes on his pillow and one of Louis’ beanies on. An ashtray sits at his toe, which he butts out the manky stub in without looking up. The air conditioning is on full but the room reeks of smoke, a smell that doesn’t usually stick so closely to Zayn, and one that Niall doesn’t particularly like.

Black hair pokes out from beneath the folded-up hem, which Niall strokes his fingertips across. Zayn blinks away the glassiness in his eyes, red-rimmed and wet.

“Hey, Zayn. Do you want some ice-cream?”

* : ・ﾟ❧ ﾟ・: *

* * *

* : ・ﾟ❧ ﾟ・: *

One week.

That’s what Niall and Liam have agreed on; Niall will resume sleeping with Zayn for seven nights, and then the other boys will roll in, so that Zayn will never be alone, but it won’t have to be Niall.

“You’ve been getting out of that pit, and I don’t want to see you—” Liam cuts himself off and sighs. “You were a bit of a wreck, if I’m honest.”

Niall peers into the living room, the boys taking advantage of the last half of their four-day break with another movie night. Louis and Harry have sandwiched Zayn in the middle, a blanket over all three of them.

“It’ll be just for the week, and nothing more, I promise,” he says quietly, turning away from the door, “and then I’ll let you guys take over.”

* : ・ﾟ❧ ﾟ・: *

* * *

* : ・ﾟ❧ ﾟ・: *

“Who’s hotter, Emma Stone or Amanda Bynes?”

“I’ve seen some of Amanda Bynes’ Tweets,” Harry says, sitting up to look over at Louis, “and she’s, like, proper mental now.”

“You do talk some shit,” Louis tuts back.

“I have to agree with Curly on this one. She posted a Tweet once about that rapper, Drake, saying that she wanted him to shag her.”

An unimpressed brow-arch speaks much about how little Louis thinks of that. “So what? I announced that I’ve measured my chap before, and nobody’s calling me mental.”

“I wouldn’t be so sure—” Liam starts.

“Well, actually, she said that she wanted him to murder her vagina,” Harry adds quickly.

And suddenly it’s goldfish-central in the mouth department. Louis’ astonishment is clear as he tugs his phone out of his back pocket and starts tapping away.

“I’m looking it up,” he states when Harry leans over Zayn to see what’s going on, and Niall doesn’t fail to see the annoyed scrunch of Zayn’s features at being in the centre of it all. “Who do you fancy more, then?”

Harry shrugs, slouching back onto his own end of the sofa. “Emma seems really nice.”

“Fancy, Harry. Looks only.”

“I can’t just decide on looks. That’s _you_ you’re thinking of, Mr. Shallow Doughnut.”

“You _do_ talk some shit,” tosses Louis.

Immediately riled up by the daring comment, Harry leans forward again, and says, “She’s got nice hair then. How’s that?”

“Alright,” Zayn mutters, flicking back the blanket to let himself out, “I’m off.”

An apologetic frown draws on Harry’s face as he wriggles back into the sofa, hands in his lap; “Sorry. We’ll stop. We’ll be good.”

Even Louis drops his phone to the sofa, patting the cushions. “C’mon, love. We’ll make you tea.”

Niall knows, though, that Zayn hates being babied, _especially_ by his friends, and the guilt twirled into that cross face of his makes Niall’s heart drop.

“Nah, you guys can just keep watching.” He swallows. “I’m going to have an early one, I think.”

Awkwardness swells between them as Zayn dodges the bullet-sharp glances and retreats to his bedroom. It isn’t like they were doing it on purpose, and Louis’ wide eyes say as much when Liam looks at him with an arched brow and a slow shake of his head.

“We were just mucking about, Liam,” he says defensively. “No need for anyone’s knickers to get twisted up their bums.”

“He just broke up with his girlfriend of a year and a bit. You could be a little more sensitive, and, to be frank, a little quieter.”

Harry looks guiltily at his knees. “We were just trying to be normal.”

“I think that’s probably what _you’d_ want, but Zayn doesn’t take too well to the commotion when he’s feeling a bit poorly,” Liam explains. He flicks his gaze over to Niall. “Maybe you should go and check up on in him in, say, half an hour. Give him some time to get ready for bed, maybe check his Twitter and whatnot, then go in.”

Niall feels his face flare up. “Yeah, okay.”

* : ・ﾟ❧ ﾟ・: *

* * *

* : ・ﾟ❧ ﾟ・: *

Zayn nearly slaps himself in the face as he attempts to wipe the fat tears that’ve been burbling out in starts and fits since he left Perrie’s hotel room.

“Vas happening?” he grins, only it comes out choked instead of funny; Niall wants to say that it’s alright if Zayn just wants to collapse in on himself, but he figures that Liam’s let him do enough of that already.

“Well, you know what’s next in the stage of moving on – _strippers_.”

And then Niall’s biting his lip and bouncing his hips, shimmying out of his jacket. The sad hitches at the corners of Zayn’s pouty mouth break until he’s grinning back, proper laugh wringing free of his smoke-stained throat completely when Niall whimpers from inside his singlet, “I’m stuck.”

A wrestle ensues against the thin but tight prison of fabric before it’s being tugged back down. Niall lets his goofy grin take on a hint of bashfulness, lets it soften when Zayn cups his face, gently thumbing where Niall’s cheeks have adopted a permanent rosiness native to Ireland pubs, and lets Zayn hug him.

It’s a weighty embrace that tightens when Niall reciprocates, getting a flutter that he’s sure Zayn can feel in his own chest. Both arms securely around the older boy’s shoulders as hot breath thaws his bones, Niall thinks that he may melt if Zayn clings onto him any longer, thumbing circles at the small of his back. He doesn’t, nor does he protest, so they stay for a while, Zayn with his face tucked meekly into the crook of Niall’s neck, Niall pressing his lips against the coin of his temple.

“Sorry, Niall. Juss’ needed someone to…” Zayn rocks away but allows his hands to slide along Niall’s soft jawline again. “Did you want something?”

“I wanted you to smile, and look at that. My job’s already half-done.” One hand on Zayn’s hip and the other readjusting Louis’ obscenely colourful beanie, Niall bumps his hips forward playfully. “Do you wanna watch some _Supernatural_? Louis isn’t going to come through and make fun of us. We’re safe.”

Sure enough, Zayn falls head over heels into the world of spirits and angels and demons. Louis claims that he knew about Zayn’s sexuality from the start, what with his massive crush on Dean and whatnot. It’s the first season (Zayn’s idea) playing, with Haribo packets emptied into a massive bowl (Niall’s idea).

“He’s so cool, isn’t he, Niall?” Zayn says dreamily.

“I think that you look a bit like him,” the blonde says, cramming the yawn tickling his throat back into his gut, “so maybe it’s just your vanity fucking about in your subconscious mind or som’in’.”

“Don’t care. I’m in love with him, and not even ashamed.” Tapping the spacebar gingerly as the names start rolling down the screen, Zayn nudges against the round of Niall’s pasty-white shoulder. “Is this the part where you toddle on off to your own room?”

He’s got a sad tilt to his voice, stale hurt clouding in his eyes as he tries to remain neutral-faced. Niall wonders what kind of magic he’d have to know to just disappear because the way that Zayn’s looking at him makes his insides curl tightly. Whatever’s choking Zayn’s throat gives, and he adds; “Sorry, Niall. I didn’t mean it like that.”

“Nah, don’t be daft,” Niall mutters quietly, pushing himself up onto his elbows. “I’ll stay, if you still want me to.”

“I don’t want you to do it because… Did you only do it for me? ’cause I thought… I don’t know.” He huffs and sits up and reaches for his smokes. “I thought you liked it. I like having someone to hold, alright, and _you_ were the one who invited _me_.”

The words bubble out of Niall before he can even think them through properly. “No, Zayn, ’t’wasn’t just you.”

“Then what the fuck made it alright for you to just _stop_? Do you even know what— Seriously, what did I do?” Only there’s no venom at all, just more hurt mumbled around a cigarette.

“You were with Perrie.”

Zayn pauses, thumb on the lighter.

“Pardon?”

“You were with Perrie, and that made it a bit weird for me,” and it’s such a lie, bullshit horrible, dry, and thick in his mouth, “so I stopped and I didn’t know how to tell you.”

The cherry catches the weak flame trickling from where it’s finally sparked. “It wasn’t like we were having a quick one beneath the sheets,” is all he says.

Niall swallows. He takes a page from Liam’s book. “Yeah, but, like, it was warm, we were cozy, it was a bit intimate and that, and the opportunity was there.” He shuffles around uncomfortably, fully aware behind all of the crap he’s spouting that, actually, he’d been much more eager to take advantage of it than Zayn would ever be. There had definitely been times, moments where Zayn’s cock was curved up against his tailbone, the sleepy moans drawn out of him when Niall pressed back indecent at best. “It just didn’t feel right.”

A rough, clenched noise crackles like the tip of Zayn’s fag and his stare is so cold but also so broken. “You thought that I’d make a move?” he asks quietly. “I loved Perrie, Niall. I’ve never— I _wouldn’t_.”

“If I were a woman, would it be the same?” Niall counters.

“But you’re _not_ , Niall. You’re my best friend, and I—” He shakes his head, done, _so_ done, totally exhausted; it shows as clear as daylight. “I don’t want to fight with you, Niall. I’ve done enough fucking fighting over the past few months with Perrie, so fuck off if you’re going to fuck off, or stay if you’re going to stay. I’ll still love you if you go.”

Niall answers by getting up to shuck off his trousers, tender grin beaming down on Zayn, who flings his T-shirt to the floor. Bare chest pressed against Niall’s bare back and a kiss that doesn’t linger against the side of his neck, Zayn skips brushing his teeth in favour of cuddling up closely.

* : ・ﾟ❧ ﾟ・: *

* * *

* : ・ﾟ❧ ﾟ・: *

A day of sorting out what they’re going to tell the press, Zayn deleting messages and photos in a room so tensely relaxed that Harry doesn’t even ask if he can get a peek at one, and a night spent in each other’s arms, a visit to the tattoo parlour for Louis—a naughts-and-crosses grid—and some seriously brutal work-outs that make Niall think it possible and probable that his arms may well fall from their hinges, and it’s the third night after Zayn’s break-up. Niall’s tummy still aches with a good burning from Louis being his usual bonkers self earlier before Eleanor dragged him off to bed. (Or, rather, he took a break from being a complete spastic long enough to check a text, blinked very quickly a few times with a sly tilt to his open grin, told the lads that he was going to go and check up on her, and didn’t come back.)

“Something wrong wih’ you,” Niall’d tutted. “Mates before dates, Tommo.”

“Bras before bros,” had been the response, giving them all an apologetic thumbs-up.

And Zayn… He’d laughed. He’d smiled and had his beer and slung his arm around Liam’s shoulders. Actually, Niall had been under the impression that tonight was a good night, up until he gets a stifled, wrecked sob against his neck.

“Zayn—”

Only he’s darting away, clambering to get his arm out from under Niall’s neck, crushing his knees against his chest. Niall’s up too with a moment where his vision’s a fair bit foggy at the sudden movement. It’s so heart breaking and a little disappointing but it’s Zayn and Niall can’t—doesn’t even try to—stop himself from pulling Zayn into a hug.

Zayn hiccups. “I loved her.”

“I know,” Niall murmurs.

Niall’s not like the rest of the boys; he isn’t the kissy-kissy type, and yet he presses his lips to Zayn’s cheek, which is sweaty-hot and wet. His hands rub against his smooth back, making Zayn’s breath hitch, making him melt right into Niall.

“I’m sorry,” he mutters into Niall’s collarbone where his heart is aching strangely.

“No, c’mon. Don’t be silly.” Without even noting it, he’s straddling Zayn’s lap and sliding his hand around the back of his neck, blunt nails scratching-rubbing where his hair turns to stubble. “This is what I’m here for, alright? If you’re going to take care of us when we’re burning low, we’re going to do the same.”

The thoughts flitter through Zayn’s head, mouth cracked open. He sniffles.

“I love you all, you know that?” he says weakly. “I love you, Niall.”

“Of course we know, you big sook.”

But it hurts, and it hits Niall again that he shouldn’t tease himself like this, needs to stop, paranoid that Zayn’ll catch on, but he ducks down and kisses Zayn’s cheek, pecks the side of his neck quickly. He secures his arms around Zayn as the latter cries right into midnight, eventually running out of energy to the point where he can do nothing but curl up and fall asleep.

He didn’t say anything that coaxed Niall into it yet Niall presses up against Zayn as the big spoon. He cuddles him, listens to his breathing start to regulate, and nuzzles up against his warm body.

He misses the words that Zayn whispers to him at around one in the morning;

“ _Love you, Niall_.”

* : ・ﾟ❧ ﾟ・: *

* * *

* : ・ﾟ❧ ﾟ・: *

Everything turns to shit on day seven.

* : ・ﾟ❧ ﾟ・: *

* * *

* : ・ﾟ❧ ﾟ・: *

“For fuck’s sake, Zayn, stop.” Louis’ voice carries through the whole hotel, Niall’s absolutely certain. “You’ll never look as good as me, so hurry your bony bum up and let’s go!”

But Zayn keeps stroking his hair, rummaging his fingers through it, trimming his stubble. Niall’s pretty sure that Zayn’s practice of the “rolled-out-of-bed” look defeats its whole purpose, and doesn’t mention it.

One earring after another goes through the hole, a concentrated line riddled deep between his brows telling of his determination to find one that fits with his outfit, because it has to be perfect because if it’s not then he’ll obsess over it like a crazy cunt.

“Tired?” Zayn asks when he has to pause from fiddling with the butterfly due to the arms that string around his waist. Niall rests his cheek on the bit where Zayn’s frail shoulder curves just so.

“Nah, just want you to be alright, y’know?” he fibs. “’nd a bit of a cuddle never hurt.”

“Unless it’s a python,” Liam quips with a lame sort of smile, the kind when he knows that he’s made a stupid joke. “You two ready?”

“This one’ll do. Black goes with everything,” shrugs Zayn, rocking Niall back a few centimeters.

Liam does his hawk-eye thing, like a magnifying glass catching sunlight and burning into an unsuspecting ant. Only, reasons Niall, he’s not unsuspecting, nor completely innocent. They make their way to the main room (Zayn with his cool stroll, Liam with his gaze trained on Niall, and Niall with his head down) where Harry is classically naked.

“For fuck’s sake,” Niall groans.

“Hey,” Harry interjects before Liam can berate him into the floor, “I’m ready to go as soon as I put my clothes on.”

But Harry does it as he does everything; slowly, with lazy movements, he picks out his clothing. Everyone’s a little on edge with the effort to not get pissy with each other and ruin Zayn’s first night out. Back in the UK, too, so everyone can have some pints and a good craic, even if it takes a billion years for Harry to get his stupid pants on. Liam stifles his annoyance in Danielle’s neck, cuddling up on the bigger sofa. Eventually, Niall grabs one of the ridiculously overpriced beers from the mini fridge, and then another when Zayn’s ears practically prick up at the sound of bottles clinking like wind chimes, and stands to follow Niall out to the balcony.

“It’s always Harry, innit?”

“Him and his fucking exhibitionism,” agrees Niall. “I mean, Christ, not even got his boxer-shorts on.”

Zayn nods. The air’s thicker here; Niall’d nearly been suffocated by it when he got off the plane and into London, not like the slightly cleaner air in some parts of America (though LA had come pretty close to killing him). Everything feels homier, smog and all, because he can _finally_ say to a sales lady that he wants _trousers_ and they’ll understand, and people don’t make him repeat what he’s said because they haven’t understood his accent. Lou spent the day out seeing mates and family, somehow still conjuring the energy from his arse to go out for the evening to a few clubs that Harry’s picked out.

Zayn clears his throat; “I’m not going to bring a girl back. You?”

“No,” Niall replies quietly, leaving out that he hasn’t shagged anyone in months, now. “Just myself and my own drunken arse.”

The rough denim of Zayn’s sleeve scruffs against his skin. “How about you come to my room, then? Just you and me, maybe watch _Lock, Stock, and Two Smoking Barrels_?”

And it’s the tremor of uncertainty tainting his hopeful smile that almost makes Niall lean in and place a quick one right on his lips; he wants to know what it’s like to kiss Zayn while he’s got his shy grin going, to feel the corners of his mouth quirk up as he presses back.

He dodges it, tucks his head into Zayn’s neck instead, gets an arm draped around his shoulder.

“Beats a cold bed, eh?”

Carefully, Zayn lowers his beer, bottle tapping against the polished railing.

“Is that all it is, to you?” he asks quietly.

“Why? What’s it to you?” Niall smiles back.

“I’m going to regret telling you this…”

Warm under Zayn’s arm, Niall nuzzles in against him, and says, “Don’t care. Tell me.”

There’s a raw sort of look about Zayn as he untucks Niall, standing elbow-to-elbow with him instead, staring out to where every building has strings of rectangle lights pressed against their walls, office workers still tapping away at keyboards inside. The city glow seems so dull in comparison to his smooth skin, a flush of the faintest scarlet dusted on the angular apples of his cheeks. “It’s the stupidest, most cliché fear, but I don’t— I don’t want to die alone, you know?” He closes his eyes for a little while, shaking his head, and swallows. “I hate the idea of it, being so isolated that nobody’s even there for you in your final moments. I’ve had some rough patches, where not only was I _alone_ , but I was _lonely_ , and it’s the worst fucking feeling.”

Niall watches him, brows furrowed, beer forgotten.

“It made me realise,” he continues with a sad sort of smile that has Niall’s heart bouncing four sizes too big as it thrums against his ribs, “that I don’t ever want to feel that way again.” His eyes catch on Niall’s. They stare at each other for a moment, wind tickling the back of Niall’s neck, the hair on his arms prickling at a sudden breeze that dies into nothing. Zayn looks at Niall with undeserved adoration, the corners of his mouth tilted into a small but serious smile. “You’ve saved my life a million times over, just by reminding me through all the madness that I’m not alone. I love you, and I can never thank you enough.”

Over the insane _thud, thud, thud_ ding of his swollen heart which suddenly feels too weak to process every fucking beautiful wonderful horrible thing going through his ears and pouring down his insides, the murmurs of guilt etch and scratch at his eyes.

“Sorry,” Zayn starts to say, but Niall’s having none of that;

“No, fuck, Zayn, don’t be. Jesus, I—” His words catch in his throat and he has to swallow, desperate for a good chug of beer to soothe his system. “Really?”

“Yeah,” Zayn admits. “It’s a hard thing to talk about. If I was still just some Bradford kid, people wouldn’t— well, my family, my mates, they’d have been royally fucked up, but now… We’re responsible for people’s _lives_. I don’t even fully get it, but I was just so upset sometimes, and nothing made sense,”—his gaze casts back to Niall—“and then there was you, still grinning your pale arse off, always so calm and beautiful.”

Half-full bottle nestled against a pot plant’s stalk, Niall straightens and can’t turn down the overwhelming need to hug him, to just _hold_ Zayn and protect him from the world. He clings to him like Zayn will turn to dust if he lets go, everything rushing into him like a fucking dam’s broken and he can finally piece every word in his ear at night and the thanking whispers and, _God_ , it’s like there’s nothing but air in his chest.

“Finally! Honestly, it’s like you lot get off on making me late,” Louis sighs dramatically and very, _very_ loudly. “Let’s go, then. Chip-chop, paddle-pops.”

Niall strokes Zayn’s smooth cheekbone, right to the thicker stubble framing his jaw, and says, “Alright? You still want to go out?”

“Yeah,” Zayn murmurs quietly, but he’s smiling; he’s smiling so brightly that he’s practically beaming.

* : ・ﾟ❧ ﾟ・: *

* * *

* : ・ﾟ❧ ﾟ・: *

It’s when they nearly topple out of the car—Louis’ foot barely avoids catching on Liam’s nose who in turn only manages to not clock Harry one in the crotch by Zayn’s swift save—and it’s the cheers and the fans who heard _somehow_ (Louis dodges Liam’s tuts) where they were going to be. There are body guards and five girls all standing in _Little Mix_ T-shirts and one of them has thick-rimmed glasses, and her eyes snap onto them.

Niall first sees the guard, a Scottish chap named Gordon, moving swiftly. It’d be sort-of funny, the egg hitting his face, if it wasn’t happening _here_ and _now_ and to _them_. Pelted, pelted by _eggs_ , and though the body guards manage to shield them from the majority, Niall will still have to shed his hoodie.

“ _Nobody dumps Perrie and gets away with it!_ ”

“ _Manwhore!_ ”

“ _Jerk!_ ”

One just brushes his T-shirt and splatters on the floor. Louis holds up his hand just in time, clear goo hanging like snot from his fingers. He looks appalled.

“Fucking eggs?” Niall snorts. “Are those crazy cunts serious? What are they on?” He turns to a bystander, someone queuing up for the club as well. “Don’t do meth,” he grins, trying to defuse the situation.

“No, come on, girls, that’s just mean,” Louis says, shaking his head, voice so loud and angry that Harry has to place a sturdy hand on his shoulder. “What made you think that that was okay?”

From where they’re all standing, berating them now that they’re being restrained and photographed, none of the boys see Zayn climb back into the car, shrugging off his yolk-sticky jacket. Only when the engine purrs does Niall sneak a glance over his shoulder to where Zayn’s shutting the door, lunging so quickly that he nearly snags his fingers in it.

“Zayn, babe. Don’t let them put you off,” Liam pleads, catching on to what’s happening beyond the girls hurling abuse and Louis just shaking his head while Harry looks embarrassed _for_ them.

There’s a tightness to Zayn’s jaw that sits in his eyes and the purse of his mouth, wound up so sharply that it looks like it’ll snap. He’s pinching the bridge of his nose and the sigh so broken and exhausted drives a panicked clump into Niall’s lungs.

“I’ll go to the hotel with him, get him cleaned up, then we’ll come back if he’s up for it,” he says firmly to Liam, and to himself. Liam agrees immediately, so Niall ducks down into the car, gentles Zayn’s head into his lap, and strokes his hair the whole way there.

* : ・ﾟ❧ ﾟ・: *

* * *

* : ・ﾟ❧ ﾟ・: *

It’s a million years before a sound passes through Zayn’s lips; when he finally pries them open, the only thing he says is, “Shouldn’t’ve gone out tonight.”

“No way,” Niall insists, mind flickering to the multiple articles that’ll flash through the internet and magazines as the hotel room door closes behind him. “Don’t put this on yourself, Zayn, they’re proper mental, and they threw _eggs_ , for fuck’s sake.” He sighs when Zayn’s sad gaze only trains harder on the plush carpet, finding a sense of calm beneath the mayhem and he considers calling Liam to see what’s happened to the girls. “Go and have a shower, alright? If you’re feeling up for it, we’ll go down to the pub, have a pint or two, then see if the lads are still at the club. If not, we’ll get absolutely pissed right here.”

Zayn give a single slow nod and tugs his shirt up over his neck. While the shower’s running, Niall makes some calls (Louis’ rings out, Harry’s goes straight to voicemail, so really, it’s only Liam who actually picks up, and Niall can tell that Liam’s in the middle of something, his breathing all rough and deep, so he keeps it short and snappy) and fetches himself a beer, pours four shots and takes two.

“I can’t,” Zayn says guiltily when Niall asks if they’re going to be ready in half an hour, so that he can get a cab organised. At first, Niall thinks that it’s because Zayn’s hair alone will take that long, but then he catches the way that Zayn curls a little more into his lazy hoodie. “Sorry.”

Niall flops out on the sofa, one foot braced up against the arm and the other draped to the floor. He pats the cushion between his legs invitingly.

Not one to pass up a cuddling opportunity after such a rough week, Zayn throws back the two remaining shots, tucks himself in, presses his cheek to Niall’s chest, crooks his knees until he’s fitted so perfectly, hums when Niall’s fingers drift through the quiff he’d spent forever styling and didn’t even get to show off. Zayn doesn’t stop him when he feels nails scratching at the nape.

And Zayn can’t—doesn’t even try to—stop himself from gasping when Niall rakes his fingers through his hair and back to his frail shoulders, working into a pattern. When Niall’s movements do not so much as flinch at the sound, he lets out a quieter, meeker sound that he thinks was probably supposed to be a curse. Niall watches his head drop forward and snickers a little to himself.

Zayn presses his nose right up against Niall’s bellybutton, and it looks like Zayn’s going down on him, which would be kinda incredi—

Then Zayn keens sadly against the thin fabric, hot puffs crippling his attempts to keep Niall from noticing. Niall just strokes the scruff of his neck through it, fingertips brushing over his knobbly spine to soothe him through his tear-up.

“Why are you taking care of me?” he chokes out.

Gently twirling a particular strand until it stands apart from the others, like a tree bent the wrong way in a field, he laughs a bit quietly. Zayn perks his head up, confused, stricken-looking and hurt.

“What?” he asks loudly. “Niall, you’re in _London_. Why aren’t you out with family or something?”

A strange, fond sort of smile graces Niall’s pale lips.

“Because I love you, Zayn,” he says easily, “and you need me.”

Zayn nods a little unsteadily, presses a slow kiss to Niall’s jaw, and says, “You’ve got a bit of stubble.”

* : ・ﾟ❧ ﾟ・: *

* * *

* : ・ﾟ❧ ﾟ・: *

Between them, seven bottles’ worth of beer disappears, replaced by empties which Niall drops into the kitchen’s small bin. With each passing minute, Zayn nuzzles further and further up into the crook of Niall’s neck, and if he notices the semi that the blonde’s sporting, he doesn’t mention it. Really, the only time he kicks up a fuss is when Niall lifts him from the sofa, carries him bridal-style to his bedroom (careful to tuck his head in at the doorway), and wraps him up. There are soft breaths barely audible but soft like feathers and light by the time Niall’s opening the bedroom door, because he can’t— _can’t can’t can’t_ —do this again, keep encouraging it, staying with Zayn. He’s a bit drunk and a big woozy and everything Zayn’d said barely grazes his reasoning as he slips out the front door.

He gets as far as the room two down before he hears the heavy footsteps hot and rhythmless and closing in on him.

“Where’re you going?” Zayn manages once he gets his door open, the lock proving to be not as much of an issue as Niall’d hoped.

Niall rocks back on his heels, turning to face him, eyes not finding Zayn but rather something just over his shoulder.

“My room,” he says simply.

Almost shocked by the answer, Zayn’s brows scrunch together. “Why? Why not sleep with me?”

“Because I’ve got my own bed, ’aven’t I?” Niall says, bumbling for excuses. “And you, you’re pissed. You’re _really_ pissed. Go back to bed.”

“You don’t give a shit about that, Niall. You’re Irish, for fuck’s sake. Drinking is practically _breathing_ for you.” Only there’s no ice to his words, just more hurt lacing in, Niall crumbling under the weight of hope that Zayn’s been building for the past six nights. He sways on his legs, jaw clenching and unclenching, staring hard at Niall with eyes close to tears.

“I’m just not in the mood, alright?” he tosses back. He has to stop, leave, before he lets heat camouflage the other feelings boiling in his throat.

Zayn’s lips crack apart at that, hand not gripping the doorframe flying up in disbelief; “What does that even _mean_ , Niall? You’re not in the mood to sleep? That’s okay, watch some telly and then come to my bed, to me. Please. Come on.” When Niall only grits the toe of his shoe into the carpet, Zayn lets his arm drop, voice low, drunk, vulnerable, and too soft for it to be okay. “What about what I said back out on the balcony? Were you even listening? I— I can’t be alone, alright? I can’t do it, mate. Any other night, fine, but I need you _tonight_ , Niall. Just this once, I promise.”

Every time Niall’s name forms in his pleas, it’s falling from his lips without a parachute. It gets more and more broken, bleeding out until all the boy can do is shake his head.

“No, Zayn, you don’t. Just, like, go to sleep,” he says quietly.

A sigh snags in Zayn’s throat and he closes his mouth, breathing out through his nose. “Please don’t go.”

And Niall can’t— can’t help what he thinks next, that Zayn can barely stand up straight, can’t follow him if he walks quickly enough. He just wants the crushing, burning, bitter love to stop. It clambers up his ribcage like a black fog as he does the thing that people do when they want to lose it all; he presses forward, eyes only open enough to make sure his lips land where they should. Square on the mouth, months of tattered thoughts and question marks scrawled in weird feelings sewn up with frayed edges forced _hard_ against Zayn’s pouty lips

He hates hates _hates_ himself the moment he does it, even more so when he steps back and Zayn’s eyes are wide, drunk, and scared. Zayn swallows shakily, and Niall feels exactly how he knew he would; mean and sick, and he hopes that Zayn thinks that of him. He hopes that Zayn’ll get mad, and not speak to him, and smile in front of the cameras but never look Niall’s way beyond that.

It’s the most masochistic thing that Niall has ever done.

There’s a breath’s worth of time before Niall takes off, avoiding a maid trolley filled with toiletries. Zayn doesn’t even yell out, doesn’t try to call him back.

Niall feels worse than ever and, in a rock-in-his-throat kind of way, he’s okay with that.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry that it's taken so long, guys. I was advertising for a beta reader on my tumblr (wantdeniallinme) but nobody responded, and my way of proofing my own writing is to wait a few days so that I don't brush over chunks of it :/
> 
> IF THERE ARE MISTAKES, PLEASE COMMENT. I MAY HAVE MISSED SOME.
> 
> PSA: If you or someone you know is participating in #CutForZerrie, PLEASE STOP. These are HUMAN BEINGS. It is a REAL RELATIONSHIP. You can can still write your fanfictions, and drool over pictures of him, and make your gifs, even when he's married, so stop! It's mean and selfish.

Liam knows.

He hasn’t said a thing, but Niall’s certain that he does; it’s in the stare that narrows in on Niall, who shuffles guiltily. In saying that, he can’t shake the feeling that everybody in the band, the backstage, the security, they _all_ know, can somehow just _tell_ with one glance. Niall avoids Zayn and Liam in particular during their concerts, huddling up to Louis until Louis kind-of sort-of catches on, asking why he’s pissed off at Liam and Zayn, and Niall shakes his head and says, “Nothing.”

Even Harry notices.

“Jesus, Niall, when I said _be funny, be care-free_ , I didn’t mean _fuck Zayn up_.” 

Niall looks up over his salad ( _“No Nando’s, Niall! You can’t eat that shit and then complain about pimples! Pick one!”_ ) which he’s mostly been playing with, to the point where the lettuce is bruised and soggy. Harry’s hands are on his hips, pouty lips pinched together with a frown sliced between them, leaning over the table. Keeping secrets just isn’t something they _do_ ; from dick sizes to self-harm scars, they know each other’s ins and outs, the light and dark of their minds and hearts.

But Niall keeps this one locked up tight, cramped uncomfortably in his chest.

Harry’s not too impressed by the stir in the band’s dynamics and has absolutely no problem with making it known. Niall can only assume that he’s the only one getting a talking-to, not Zayn, because, well, Zayn’s been even quieter than normal. None of them had thought it was even _possible_.

And God, fucking hell, Niall wants to be the easy-going dickhead that he was and tries to be but it’s so difficult to surface in all his worries. He thinks of his church and will he get kicked out? What about when it pops up in a magazine and his friends, lads he’s known since he could talk, realise that he wants it up the arse? What will they say and what will they do and will he have to start flirting with the male radio hosts as well? He’s fucking _drowning_ all the time no matter how hard he tries to breathe.

And he doesn’t sleep so well anymore.

“You can’t both be so gloomy about this… this…” Harry carries on, dropping into the chair beside Niall’s, throwing his hands up in exasperation, “ _whatever_.”

But he

_just_

_doesn’t_

_get it._

* : ・ﾟ❧ ﾟ・: *

* * *

* : ・ﾟ❧ ﾟ・: *

Niall’s on the piss the moment he gets on the bus, snoozing it off alone, just across from where Zayn’s napping. He hears stirring as he lies down but it stops so he ignores the world and curls up into a drunken slur of on-off sleep. Liam and Zayn are whisked away for a radio interview, so Harry helps Niall into his bedroom.

“Love you, Barry,” Niall grins, getting a weaker smile in return as he splays out on the mattress, limbs everywhere, wonderful drunken floaty beautifulness pumping in his blood.

He wonders if he could do this forever, just live a boozed-up dream of being unattached to everyone, himself included, and seeping through every day like a coffee stain on a white singlet. Coffee stains don’t love people. They don’t break their own hearts.

That beauty soon melts, solidifies low in his gut. As the time ebbs on through the night, seconds ticking by like decades, he spends too much time thinking, the high peaking at around half eleven and crashing at quarter to twelve. Harry didn’t have the sense to remove his cellphone from his back pocket, and though his face is flush up against the pillows (there are way too fucking many; seriously, who needs a million and one pillows?) he manages to get the right contact.

“Hello, Niall! I was wondering when you’d call.”

Her chipper voice and familiar accent work a deep ache into his chest.

“Mum, I’ve fucked up.”

“Niall, talk louder, I can’t hear you. Are you drunk?”

Niall snorts, wipes away the snot and tears, and says, “Yeah. Shit-faced.”

“Language.” A pause. “Where are you?”

“Hotel.”

“Where are the other boys? Make sure that they take care of you, and call me in the morn—”

“No, Mum, if I don’t— I need to tell you something, something important,” he says carefully, trying his best not to slur. “That girl, the one that I told you about…”

“Yes? Oh, mother of Mary, tell me you haven’t gotten her pregnant.”

“No, Mum, because she’s not... The thing is…” He smears his palm through his hair and finally mutters, “It’s Zayn.”

And, just like that, there’s one less secret in the mix.

* : ・ﾟ❧ ﾟ・: *

* * *

* : ・ﾟ❧ ﾟ・: *

“I came out to my mum.”

It’s an uncomfortable, dull bus trip, since Louis’ taking a plane with Eleanor to get straight to the show. The usual hype is absent, and not even the telly’s on as Liam tweets people back with another tab open for tumblr, Harry and Zayn asleep in their bunks.

“How did she take it?” Liam puts down his phone, leaning forward to rest his elbows on his thighs.

Niall lets out a puff of breath. “Black, no sugar,” he says. “Not happy ’bout it, but not unhappy. She says she’ll get used to it, asked if I was being safe, asked if I was _sure_. She said that God wouldn’t create something as beautiful as love only to make it a sin, and that I’m the new Lance Bass.” A small smile perks up the corners of his mouth. “She asked if Holly knows, and said she’ll love me no matter what, even though she was kinda crying. You know, all the usual stuff, I guess. Not gonna tell my dad, yet, or Greg. They’re finally getting used to all of it, and I can’t put them under this pressure.”

Then Liam’s plopping down next to him, an arm around his waist, gentling him into an easy sort of embrace.

“That’s so brave of you, Niall. I bet she’s proud of you, but now you need to talk to Zayn,” Liam insists softly. “Tell him what’s up. He hasn’t said anything to any of us, but he’s really kicking himself about it. Even if… if he doesn’t feel the same way, he’ll support you, we all will. You know we will.”

Niall’s guitar needs tuned, and he wonders if he could ask Liam to help. Usually… Usually it’d be Zayn.

Slowly rubbing his hand over the smooth of Niall’s shoulder, Liam adds, “I tried to get him to sleep in my bed, but he said that it wasn’t the same. He didn’t even stay the whole night. What happened between you two?”

Swallowing, Niall flinches, stiffens, looks away. “I kissed him,” he admits grimly, tucking his face back into Liam’s (Harry’s?) jumper. “We were both pretty pissed, and a bit upset, and I didn’t know what to do.”

Liam sighs. “Fucking hell, Niall,” he says in a whisper. “You can’t leave him hanging like that. Talk to him.”

The thing is, Niall wouldn’t kiss Liam, not even now when they’re so close, not even if Liam was gay. He’s just not… Why Zayn? Why the fuck does it always come down to Zayn?

_Zayn and Zayn and always Zayn and no-one but bloody Zayn._

Niall is silent until they get off the bus.

* : ・ﾟ❧ ﾟ・: *

* * *

* : ・ﾟ❧ ﾟ・: *

Liam makes it his goal to tackle every single one of them during their show. He gets Harry first, clipping him around the waist, wrestling him to the floor. Watching Harry’s long limbs flail uselessly is a fucking riot. It always has been; where most people have one left arm, one right arm, one left leg, and one right leg, constructed with muscles and bones and tendons, Harry has tentacles that are practically just tights crammed with dog food. He tries to flip Liam over but it’s a lost cause, rubber bones no match for solid muscle. Liam pats Harry’s tummy kindly and then sits on it.

Louis is next, pushed to the ground with Liam’s stomach on his chest and Liam’s hands on his bum, even getting a good squeeze to his round cheeks before Liam rolls off of him and offers a hand.

He manages to get Zayn with his arms behind his back and on his knees, arse in the air while Liam pretends to spank him. He barely taps his palm against Zayn’s arse cheek, and Zayn—being the good sport he is when it comes to fanservice—lets his jaw go slack and his eyelids flutter closed.

If Zayn ever takes his eyes off of Niall through _What Makes You Beautiful_ , Niall doesn’t see it. In saying that, he does his best to avoid Zayn, until he can’t because Zayn’s fingertips are poking him in the nipples and then his bellybutton, and he has to do it back.

Zayn’s splitting grin twists Niall’s heart.

But not as much as the kicked-puppy look in his eyes does.

* : ・ﾟ❧ ﾟ・: *

* * *

* : ・ﾟ❧ ﾟ・: *

Niall hears Zayn looking for him backstage, and hides, literally ducks behind a rack of clothes to get away from him until they’re all together and Zayn can’t—won’t—bring it up. Not in front of the boys. Not where others can hear them. He won’t do that to Niall.

…Niall hopes.

He slips into the bus’ bathroom to dodge each disapproving, bullet-like glance from Liam, who only shakes his head before retreating to the bunk. They have ten minutes before they’re in the hotel lobby. Niall pretends he’s going for a quick one to wank off the last ebbs of adrenaline when really all he’s doing is sitting on the closed toilet seat feeling sorry for himself.

It’s too much and too shit and when Harry suggests going to his room for a pint (which, _legally_ , only Louis is allowed, but as long as they keep it quiet Paul turns a blind eye and doesn’t give a shit) he feels a bit ill. Usually Niall’d be up for it, downing shots and thinking nothing of it. He’d make a dick of himself, make everyone else laugh, but…

He just can’t bring himself to do it.

So he leaves them at Harry’s door, snapback low and iPod in so that he can’t hear them when they ask if he’s sure. To be honest, Niall doesn’t really think he is; drunk off his face sounds fucking brilliant right about now. To be even _more_ honest, it’s really the idea of being numb that appeals to him over whatever the fuck _all of this_ is.

A metre from his door—from safety—he gets tentative fingertips on his shoulder and then he’s against the wall, two hands boxing him in.

Niall stares at Zayn.

Zayn stares right back.

And, _oh shit, oh fuck, oh **God**_ , Niall thinks he may have a heart attack if it _keeps fucking pounding_ like that. On second thought, he may be sick instead.

“Zayn,” he says quietly, a dash of relief flushing through him and fizzling at the base of his spine when he doesn’t vomit instead. “Zayn, what’s up?”

“No, Niall, stop it,” Zayn breathes. A miserable ache cracks the end of it. “Fucking hell.”

When Zayn gets like this, so god-damned vulnerable that he resorts to _swearing_ , nobody can deny him the comfort he needs. Only the freeze in Niall’s muscles right now stops him, because otherwise—

Zayn backs off. His arms straighten. His head falls.

“I… I know,” Niall says softly, because he does. What he did was wrong and mean and selfish. He’s had plenty of time to sob about it until his breaths were just heaves and his eyes stung. “Can we not do this here? Someone could…”

Words aren’t his specialty right now, let alone stringing them together, let alone getting the shitty pearls of shitty wisdom to actually _make sense_. All he wants now is a whiskey and a bed and to not die as soon as the door closes.

For the record, his heart doesn’t give as the solemn _click_ and then another crackles through his skin.

Neither of them speak for a while, until Zayn sighs raggedly, like he’s exhausted with the world;

“You can’t— You can’t just fucking _kiss_ me, Niall, and then run off into the night. That’s not how it works. You didn’t play fair, and you know it.” His voice becomes less hollow with every second, eyes even catching Niall’s on the last bit. “You’ve _avoided_ me, you won’t _talk_ to me, and nobody’ll tell me what’s going on. You can’t do this to me after all’f that. It’s cruel.” He curls the word in his mouth.

Niall’s slim shoulders coil in, fists clenching up at the bottom of his pockets, swallowed by Zayn’s _words_ Zayn’s _frown_ his own feelings that he doesn’t even know how to understand.

“So what the f—” He stops, sighs, and leans back against the door. “What does it mean for us?” Zayn asks when Niall says nothing.

He’s afraid that he’ll start crying.

His lips are concrete slabs. There are a hundred a thousand a _million_ things that he’d thought he’d say when Zayn finally cornered him and they’re all gone. The sound of his own voice grinds out of his throat, leaping from his mouth where he can’t can’t can’t absolutely _cannot_ take them back. “I liked you.”

“Well, I gathered that. A lad can only be so oblivious when his mate decides to go in for a drunken snog.” And there it is, the spark of realisation, when Niall looks away and he might choke on the thick sob cutting off his air supply. He might just curl up in a corner because _fuck_ , this is exactly what he’d never never never wanted; not with Angus, not with Liam, and definitely not with Zayn. “ _Oh_.” Outside, a cop car wails, and Niall can’t see the light since they’re so high up, but he hears another one zoom pass, not far behind. “You, you’re… _Liked_?”

“Well, I _like_ you, but you… I’ve fucked it up, ’aven’t I?” Niall mutters, toeing the inner soles of his Converse.

Zayn goes quiet for a long, slow moment.

“Is that why you’ve been taking care of me, then?”

Niall gives a miserable little smile, more to himself than to Zayn, but makes himself look up as he says, “No. I did that because you’re my friend, and I love you.”

That one’s a slightly easier one to gauge from him, because it’s the truth, and the boys have never held back on that sort of stuff. Gay rumours can fly this way and that while they watch with no shits given, because their wellbeing is what matters. All loving each other and never wanting it to end; if it hadn’t been for Niall’s need to push his fucking luck all the fucking time, that would’ve been enough, probably.

Zayn nods. He blinks slowly. He takes a big breath and then Niall’s pale hand, smoothing his thumb along the rough pads of Niall’s upper palm. “Why’d you kiss me, then?”

The blush he’d forgotten was simmering on his cheeks flares up right down to his collarbone. There’s nowhere for his eyes to go; the floor is too low; Zayn’s chest is too suggestive; the wall is too obvious; Zayn’s face… He can’t look at Zayn’s face.

“Come on, Niall.” Zayn’s got his other hand, now, too, and a teasing lilt. “Why’d you do it?”

Zayn can be such a frustrating twat at times when he’s all fucking smug and mysterious and he’s just letting the answers dribble awkwardly from his victim’s mouth, and _fuckshitChristalmighty_ , Niall sees the tripwire and topples over it anyway.

“Fucking hell, I don’t know,” he stammers, voice lower when Zayn edges forward. “I just— I wanted you.” He corrects himself; “I still want you.”

The nerves bubbling away in his gut pale in comparison to what he gets now, now as Zayn’s touch gentles up his sides, now as Zayn cups his cheeks, now as his brows furrow and he gets his middle finger beneath the hook of his thumb and _flicks_ Niall’s snapback off and _kisses him_. A quick, hot, and smooth one, right on the lips.

Zayn leans back, thumbs where Niall’s blush is scorching his face. “Yeah, I want you, too.”

And oh shit, it’s soft. Zayn dips in again and works away at his mouth in long, slow presses like silk against Niall’s lips. His brain goes a bit numb, and then into overdrive, hands awkwardly at his sides. It’s only when Zayn starts to lighten up on the kisses like he’s going to stop and that’s something that can’t happen; Niall yanks him forward with his hands at the small of Zayn’s back, going for it and lunging in.

Niall’s never, ever been known for his clean kissing; his mind drifts back to girls, in their bedrooms with their parents downstairs, and them complaining, because “ _Niall, you’re smudging my make-up_.” And here, now, Zayn’s just as fierce whilst tender, passionate but not rough. His smooth tongue flattens against the curve of Niall’s jaw.

“Holy _fu_ …” Niall starts when Zayn’s hot mouth works downward, smirk close and audible when Niall is one shudder off of buckling.

Niall’s mind spins spins spins, reels with the hot, toe-curling sensation, resting into Zayn’s touch, his own hands twisty-tighty clawing at the baggy back of Zayn’s shirt. He gets a nip to his ear then a bit of a nibble and he mewls— _mewls!!!_ —with a tug of arousal low in his groin.

“Do you like getting necked?” he hears the older lad ask, nudging Niall’s head until his pink cheek sinks into the cup of Zayn’s hand. Zayn opens his mouth wide, pulling his lips together with a slick, wet sound; Niall _mmphs_ , sighs, nods weakly. “I can tell.”

The blossoming, flustering warmth is barely grazing over his skin and Niall has to wrench his eyelids open. Zayn’s still tucked into the crook of his throat, but he’s staring out their feet. No, wait; he’s not.

Trying to clamp a hand over where his dick is not-at-all subtly tenting the crotch of his trousers, Niall feels the white-hot blush flood his whole body, but Zayn clasps his fingers tightly around Niall’s slender wrist. Niall’s brain skips like a faulty CD because _Zayn Zayn Zayn_ and _Zayn_ kissing him so smoothly. It’s tender and gentle and familiar and then it’s gone. Their noses nudge against each other, breath warm on Niall’s chin, face so hot that Liam can probably make his fantastic omelettes on it.

“The bed,” Zayn says softly. “It’s comfier.” He brushes his thumb back and forth on Niall’s cheekbone when the younger boy tenses up. “We don’t have to do anything. Juss’ wanna kiss you without you falling over.” Grinning, he teases a wet smooch right to the nerve-riddled skin just below Niall’s ear as a way of proving that, well, Niall’s pretty close to crumbling. Zayn latches both hands onto his arse and says, “Jump.”

Niall’s really up in Zayn’s face now, arms on his frail-looking shoulders, and Zayn’s hips are just slim enough to wedge between his thighs. He’s not really used to getting pressed against a wall and snogged whilst being rutted into (gently, though, because it’s fucking _Zayn_ ) but that’s exactly what happens as Zayn fumbles for the door knob, and Niall so definitely doesn’t want to be put down.

“Jesus,” he mutters, blunt nails brushing where Zayn’s had his hair shaved. Prickles of stubble rub against his cheek, burning his skin. Zayn’s clinging to him as he presses the younger lad onto the bed and his smile is so, so close to his ear. And he smells so Zayn, like freshly cooked bread with basil, tufts of hair fine and fluffy under Niall’s fingertips.

There are stars that flash white in his vision when Zayn necks him again, thighs clamping down on the small of Zayn’s waist, surprised at how easily he’s compacting simply for the _need_ to be closer, closer, _closer_ to Zayn. He can’t help it. The flutter of heat in his body is ridiculous, and Zayn is grinding into him like they’re— _like they’re_ —

“Fuck, Zayn, ease up,” he chuckles, a bit hoarsely now that he’s just on the right side of _really turned on_.

There’s shifting, Zayn pushing up onto his hands, Niall’s legs going slack so that his feet are on the bed.

“Sorry, I just can’t believe…” Zayn nibbles on his lip. “I’m kissing you. I never thought this could happen.”

He’s almost thrilled with that slow shake of his head like he thinks that such a thing could possibly be embarrassing even when it’s coming from him. Niall wants to say, _No, it’s fine, you’re perfect, Zayn, don’t be embarrassed_.

“You should’ve said something before,” Zayn adds quietly. His fingers and thumb trail through the perky flares of what used to be Niall’s styled quiff, broad grin easy, eyes soft.

Niall itches to touch him, to catch up on everything he’s missed now that he _knows_ what he’s been missing, to grab Zayn and force his face down against his. Everything’s a bit out of rhythm, though; his fantasy unraveling before him nearly makes his skin catch fire with the burn of an incredibly palpable flush of colour.

“You had Perrie,” is all he says. It comes out soft and sad, even more wrecked because of the prior snogging. He doesn’t want to bring her up at such a moment, but that’s exactly what he does.

Gently biting his kiss-plumped lip, Zayn breathes out slowly. It’s strangely quiet for a little while.

“I did love her, Niall, but that… That was over a really long time ago, wan’it? And I,” he sighs like he’s exhausted, which was pretty much his and Perrie’s final months; sighs and muttering, “don’t love her anymore. I haven’t for a while. I guess I just didn’t want to be alone.”

“You’re never alone,” Niall insists, maybe a bit quickly. “You never will be, I promise. C’mon, Zayn.” Sitting up a bit awkwardly, he slots his lips against Zayn’s for a second, needily reassuring him.

Zayn gets a little smile pulling at the corners of his mouth, shyly flicking out his tongue to trace where Niall had kissed him. “You didn’t even tell me you leant my way, did you?” It’s not accusing; Niall still gets a bit pinker in the face. Zayn drags his hand through the explosion of dirty blonde hair again, like he’s made it his mission to totally mess his hairstyle up. “Did you tell _anyone_?

 _Liam, I told Liam_. “I’ll make it up to you,” Niall grins with another peck, this time to Zayn’s slim wrist. “Lemme…” _Clean you out? Jesus, no_. Niall’s “apologies” have only ever been applicable to girls. He supposes that he could go down on Zayn, but that sounds a bit nerve-racking and teaching someone the how-to-give-head basics isn’t all that much fun. “Sleep with me. Shag me,” he says on impulse, not wanting to funnel all of this down to a mere fuck. It’s risky-desperate-messy with a double serving of pathetic. Zayn returns his nervous smile.

“I’m not a bottom,” he mumbles gingerly.

Niall shrugs. “I’ll do it.”

“Really?” he asks. He gets a nod. “You really… You want to?”

Niall’s thought about it, is the thing. Usually only riling up to wank himself wet in his hotel room, but sometimes just wondering; wondering if Zayn’d be gentle, if he’d cuddle him, if he’d be loud or quiet, outspoken or short of breath. Christ knows that his lungs’ health leaves much to be desired.

He’s considered what bottoming would be like, though. Would it hurt? Would that make him girly? Does that make him weak? He thinks but then he doesn’t because right now Zayn’s watching him in that sweet, adoring way that Zayn can, like his life is one big secret that he’ll only share with Niall. All potential fucks to be given burst like bags of glitter (and now he _knows_ that he’s more than a little bit gay).

“’ave you ever done this because?” Zayn asks, the concern a bit muffled by Niall’s throat.

A pathetic gasp accompanies the lazy rock of his hips as Niall presses up into Zayn’s slender body, heart pounding earthquakes in his chest. “Well, no, but there’s a first for everything.”

Zayn still seems a bit unsure. He says, “We need lube. Have you got any, love?”

“Think so. Beside my toothbrush,” he replies. “There’re, like, condoms as well.”

Maybe he’s a bit eager, a bit giddy, and frigging himself isn’t going to compare to having an actual cock up there. He chases his thoughts away by standing and unbuckling his belt while Zayn goes searching.

“It’s a pink bottle,” he offers helpfully, just as Zayn says, “Stop takin’ your clothes off. Do you, like, need your inhaler?”

A bark of laughter startles Niall; it’s the sort of laugh he does when he’s riddled with nerves. Zayn yanks off his T-shirt in one swift movement, fingers retreating to the back of his neck. “My inhaler? I’m not going for a jog,” he says, gaze paralysed. He’s seen the other boys enough to know their different shapes; Louis is curvy, an honest-to-God hourglass figure; Harry is wiry muscle under browned skin with tattoos speckled across his arms and torso; Liam is the fucking Hulk; Zayn’s weedy, bony with minimum muscle, and that’s always what’s done it for Niall, and he has no idea why.

“I was with a girl once who needed it or she’d have an asthma attack when she… like… you know,” he replies cautiously.

Seeing the fluster that dusts Zayn’s cheeks sends a zap of white-hot electricity right from Niall’s heart. If he wasn’t so turned on right now ( _Note to self: Never take Harry’s advice on what trousers to wear **ever again**_ ) he may have snorted at the way Zayn bites back on a simple word.

He’s back on the wall before a comment can be tossed out, snogged within an inch of his life with hot hands on his hips up his singlet at the back of his neck and Niall can’t keep track so he stops trying. He just lets his eyes block off everything that isn’t Zayn’s mouth, and the soothing fingers riding his top up over his head, and how he smells once he’s freshly showered.

He thinks for a moment that he may have to dry hump himself to an orgasm, rutting away against Zayn’s small thigh, bracketed between his. He just doesn’t want to ever stop kissing Zayn. He definitely has the money to retire and buy a secluded beach house somewhere to spend the rest of his days at the mercy of Zayn’s mouth. Thankfully, Zayn’s got a hand down Niall’s trousers before he can entertain that idea any further, semi perking up to a full-on stiffy at the heat and friction palming roughly on his cock.

“So you’ve never been shagged by a guy, then?”

Niall pulls his tongue away from where he’s propped it against the corner of his mouth. “No.”

“Good to know.” Eagerly undoing his own flies as the thrumming promise of a hand on his dick tightens, Niall hears Zayn snort, followed by a low and amused, “What’d I say about taking off your clothes? Let me do it.”

Niall’s grip settles on Zayn’s hips, but he says, “Maybe I really am part stripper.”

“You’ll have to perform for me sometime, then.” He nips at Niall’s bottom lip. “You ever been, like, fingered before?”

Okay, so it’d been himself, once he’d found out by having a bit of a poke around that _fuck_ , it feels good, but Niall figures that it still counts. He nods, bitten-blunt fingernails indenting half-circles into Zayn’s fantail tattoo. “Yeah, Zayn.”

Zayn gives a flustered puff of air like he’s trying to calm himself down, offering a shy smile and the bed, duvet thrown back. The spread is crumpled from earlier, cool on his skin, a breath of relief and space to soothe the spike in Niall’s heartbeat when Zayn asks him to push his hips up so that he can tug his trousers down.

Surprising Niall, Zayn takes his sweet time, edging them both as he exposes Niall’s thighs inch by inch. He gets a sweet kiss to the wing of his hip when he urges Zayn to go faster, followed by him mouthing hotly at the soft, pale skin of his inner thigh, leaving an angry mark within dangerous proximity of Niall’s cock. Gingerly nudging up for something— _anything—_ Niall’s hips wait for a second before sinking back into the mattress. Zayn seems to pause for a second.

“Can I go down on you?” he asks with a grin.

Niall’s breath gets caught in his throat for a second. He doesn’t give a verbal answer, but the way he shucks his boxer-shorts says plenty more than words ever could (he narrowly avoids kneeing Zayn in his smug face). It’s no secret that Harry has sasquatchhowthefuckdoeshegetthemthroughsleeves hands, and Zayn’s right at the other end of the scale, all dainty touches and strong but small knuckles, smooth palms gentling Niall’s knees apart.

Niall’s never gotten a blow job where a girl’s looked at him like Zayn is right now, warm and lovely as he gets to stroking him off. His thick eyelashes and their even thicker shadows fan out, casting streaks over his impossibly high cheekbones slanted down, accenting even more when he opens his mouth.

“ _Zayn_ ,” Niall hums. He gets a gentle squeeze on his thigh, such a simple gesture making his eyeballs spin inside his skull, and then Zayn’s using the distraction of his mouth on the side of Niall’s cock to slip a hand under him. He doesn’t touch his hole, not yet. Zayn gets a feel for it, for the gentle curve pressed against the sheets, head dipping slowly between Niall’s thighs.

“Zayn,” he repeats, surprisingly gruff, “give me the… the bottle. Could you get the lights, too?”

“Princess,” Zayn teases, softening his tone with two, three quick kisses; one on Niall’s stomach, one on his shoulder, and one on his lips.

Niall has to close his eyes when he presses against his own arsehole. The pads of his fingertips hardly stroke over the sparse hair between his legs, watching his own eyelids wash from red to black. He allows himself a glance to where Zayn is blatantly staring from the adjacent wall with his hand still on the light switch, his cockhead jutting obscenely against the black elastic of his Calvin Kleines. Zayn’s cheeks are rosy enough that Niall can see it even in the shadowed dim, nearly forgetting to move his hand down his cock.

He leans his head back after a few seconds, clamping his eyes shut again, stroking over his ticklish rim. Niall rubs circles, trying to open up, movements hitching when Zayn sits between his legs. Niall has one finger in already.

And Zayn’s watching Niall unravel from where he’s perched carefully as not to disturb the quiet, and Niall can’t look back at Zayn when he’s like this – on his back with his legs open on a hotel bed, lubing up his own bum. The thought of Zayn seeing all of it happen makes his brain swim and go flippy-floppy. He can’t decide if it turns him on or makes him want to disappear. He’s rutting into his hand while his other sits closed around his shaft, and he doesn’t think that he can… He can’t touch himself like this. Even with Zayn’s palms stroking his thighs gently, it’s all a bit much.

Then he gets warmth so warm so _gentle_ on his neck, draped over his body. His lazy grip is brushed aside and Zayn’s is there in its place.

“You’re so beautiful.”

Niall’s mind stutters a little, the words too soft and nearly smothered by the things going on around them. This would be about the time that a quip would be made—something along the lines of “ _I bet you say that to all the girls_ ”—only now’s _really_ not the right time. He’ll save it for later.

“And you took such good care of me, Niall,” Zayn murmurs, words hot on Niall’s throat. “You don’t give yourself enough credit, but you’re really something, you know that?”

All this while he’s constantly constantly constantly stroking and his own cock is stiff and ready in his briefs, rough on Niall’s thigh. He gets his third in. He’s stroking one on his prostate to cool the sensations down to a dull ache on his rim where it’s stretched just a bit more than his usual two fingers.

“Can I do it?” Zayn pulls the duvet over his shoulders to give Niall a bit of cover now he’s no longer under him. The hint of privacy seems a bit pointless. Zayn slides his briefs past his knees, tugs them from his ankles, and he’s hard just from kissing, just from watching and a bit of a grind. Niall takes the time now to get a good, long look, seeing how it curves slightly to the left and he’s uncut, like Niall.

Pale hand curling around Zayn’s shaft, Niall pinches whimpers from Zayn’s throat like a thread through the eye of a needle. He’s nearly gone when Zayn outright _moans_ and _bucks_ and his eyes are blown, shiny, gold-speckled where the light hits them, easing shut as he ducks in for another long kiss.

“Niall, I want to, can I touch you? I’ll be gentle, I promise.”

Niall barely nods, not wanting Zayn to stop. Keeping his eyes closed, Zayn guides his hand down the underside of his flushed, thick cock on his milky-white stomach, over his balls, brushes his thumb against his taint. He grins fondly when Niall squirms.

And he’s so soothing, so careful, like Niall’s made of porcelain, pushing his own fingers in. Zayn curves his fingertips in just so and the hook is perfect; perfect fucking _wonderful_ when he rubs them against Niall’s prostate. Zayn distracts him from the stretch with pecks to his throat his ear his face his lips, swallowing the rough little grunts and breathy groans.

“Do you think you’re ready? Are you sure you want to do this? We don’t have to go through with it,” Zayn whispers the last part. His forehead rests against Niall’s, giving him seconds and seconds and forever to think about his Catholic mum, the celibacy, the abstinence he’s been preached since he found out where babies came from.

But, he thinks, how can something so beautiful and intimate be a sin?

“I want you,” Niall says.

“We don’t have to,” Zayn repeats.

Niall peers up at him through lashes tentatively lifting like a veil. “I’m ready.”

Zayn kisses him through his fingers retreating, kisses him as Niall tears down the spiked side of the foil wrapper, sighs when the cold latex gets rolled onto his cock.

“You’ll tell me if it’s too much, yeah?”

Niall slathers more lube on—too much, maybe—and wonders if the reassurance is really all for his sake. He feels a laugh cautiously nudging at the back of his throat, seeking silent permission to open on his mouth as a grin and tell Zayn that he’s a big boy, he can take a dick up for arse without crying. He snogs him senseless instead, gets his palm slick guiding Zayn’s cock down.

The first bit is the worst, where the wide head has to fit past his rim that suddenly feels too small for something that seems way thicker than it looks. The process hurts a little—a fair bit, if he’s honest—beneath the smooth burn, and even _that_ is buried under Zayn, Zayn _inside_ him, the close, heady gaze trained on Niall.

“You alright?” he asks. He’s on the lighter side of breathiness, sending a small jolt right to Niall’s toes.

He grins; “You sound like a stupid teenager, Zayn. _Are you alright? Are you okay?_ ”

The smile on his lips broadens. If Niall’s cracking jokes, things can’t be _that_ bad. “Don’t care who I sound like, as long as you're being honest with me. Does it hurt?”

After a long, grounded pause, Niall nods, gnawing his bottom lip.

Zayn adds quietly, “ _Bad_?” and lets it hang there.

There’s no bars up anymore, Niall realises. He can— he can _kiss_ him, hold him, say everything and nothing, and he smiles at that, at Zayn. “No,” he says. “It’s good.”

It starts with small movements, the small rocking of Zayn’s hips lighting up Niall’s body. Zayn’s lips are barely ajar as he lets out steadying breath after steadying breath, each more determined than the last to keep its cool and failing with every nudge forward. He sucks his lip in, letting his teeth catch and pin it there, biting back what may have been a moan.

“Bit faster than that, maybe,” Niall laughs by way of reassurance. He’s not totally sure if he’s ready for it yet, but the throb of his cock says that he’s as good as. His knees drag against the duvet pitched on Zayn’s shoulders, his heels resting at the small of Zayn’s back.

There’s a second, a pause and a low breath, before Zayn speeds up, less restrained thrusts jolting Niall against the mattress. Niall clings to him, screws his fist in Zayn’s hair with Zayn buried in his neck and panting, moaning when he rolls his hips in. And, and, _God_ , that’s what Niall needs, to feel the familiar stretch just shy of an ache and it’s the easiest thing in the world to fall into a good rhythm.

“Can you get your knees up to your shoulders, d’you think?” Zayn breathes hoarsely. “It feels better. You’ll get a bit more pressure.”

“Try it,” Niall blurts. He’s desperate hungry bursting for an extra _something_ just to, to take the edge off. “Here, shift up.”

Niall gets a pillow under his back, kisses blushing up the side of his neck before Zayn pulls away again, lifts Niall’s knees so that he’s folding. Fuck, he’s watching his own toes above him and Zayn’s pushing back in, bottoming out with a nudge back and forth to get him fully adjusted.

“ _Shit_ ,” Niall hisses on the first proper thrust. A white-hot bubble of sensitive pleasure bursts as Zayn’s cockhead drags over it again, scorching him from the inside out. Intense, too intense, Zayn’s thighs splayed apart to fit right with his arms hooked under Niall’s knees.

The full-body shiver as a breath clips off into a deep moan stops him from telling Zayn, and thank _Christ_ he doesn’t have to.

“Not good?” Zayn asks.

Niall shakes his head and rasps, “No.”

“Alright, that’s— alright, Niall, just don’t want you to get sore.” He slips his hands out but props Niall’s legs around his waist. He flicks the covers over them again. “Just wanna make you feel good.”

Not an inch from Zayn’s parted mouth now that he can lean forward again, Niall murmurs with a shy smile, “Hello.”

“Hi,” Zayn grins.

Getting one hand on Niall’s cock and the other to steady himself, the older lad eases them back into the quick pace. Niall lets his jaw hang slack; he’s swallowing down whimpers, stirred in with a tangle of grunts trickling from Zayn’s plumped up lips that turn him on even more. A blurt of hot precome drips down his fingers.

“Rougher, move faster, Zayn,” Niall growls, gathering himself enough to take his own cock in his fist.

Zayn snaps his hips forward and… He’s so good, too good, fucking fantastic, and Niall wonders what amazing shit he’d done in a past life to deserve all of this. Releasing one particularly loud groan, Niall squeezes to fend off his orgasm, balls drawing up tight.

Zayn smiles, pants out a broken chuckle; “I can feel your toes curling on my back. You close?” Niall gives a sharp nod because even though he’s trying _so fucking hard_ not to come, he’s already pink with the final flushes before he peaks. One hard thrust triggers it; mouth open, not thinking that he’s about to jizz on himself as he hides his face in Zayn’s arm, bridge of his nose pressed to his bicep, Zayn’s lips tasting the side of his neck. He doesn’t think he’s ever come so hard in his life, orgasm rolling through him in a wave, hot white spunk spluttering onto his tummy.

Dumbstruck, dazed smile easy on his lips, Zayn rocks against him, gentle half-thrusts pacing himself out until Niall’s eyes crack open. The world is still blurry-dewy. Warmth sizzles through bones that don’t know how to move anymore as Zayn presses a petal-light kiss against Niall’s forehead.

“I’ll be quick, yeah?” he promises quietly.

A lazy nod barely twitches him. This is… It’s so quiet in his head right now. The stress, the anger and confusion and tears, slipping away every time Zayn’s fingertips press against his flushed skin. He says Niall’s name once, twice, groans out what sounds like a third and shoves his hips forward particularly hard, biting his kiss-plumped lip as he comes. The rough edge of overstimulation brushes through Niall’s spent cock, Zayn pulling out a few seconds later.

Body buzz-humming with the giddy rush of sex, Niall’s too warm for cuddling. He lets the afterglow ward off more intricate thoughts concerning anything other than getting his breathing to mellow out.

Zayn’s watching him, though, mirroring his position; chest-down with his hands tucked under the pillow and inhales shaky, uneven.

“You look—” Zayn licks his lips. “You’re beautiful, Niall.”

“You’ve already said that,” Niall manages to retort. “Haven’t you got any more lines, pretty boy?”

Only half of Niall’s heart is in it and Zayn catches the exhausted breath over Niall’s little quip. In lieu of a comeback, Zayn dips in and kisses him. It barely goes beyond that, beyond the slow smile tilting the corners of his mouth on Niall’s, warm and fresh. They snog until Niall’s neck hurts.

Niall’s not usually a cuddler. It’d be weird, too weird, too soon with anyone else, but after a collision of feelings so strong in such a short amount of time, Niall is still a bit tender in all senses of the word. He lets Zayn’s mouth wonder to the nape of his neck, his shoulder blade, tasting the salt drying on his skin. A hand ghosts gently up his side and smoothes over his other shoulder with a reassuring squeeze. Niall could fall asleep like this, nearly does until he gets a soft whisper in his ear;

“Hey,” Zayn murmurs, “you’re smiling.”

Niall nudges him, turns over a little, has to crane his neck to look at Zayn properly. “I smile all the time, you dafty.”

“Not around me, you haven’t. I mean, you’re _really_ smiling.” He nuzzles up against him, rubbing his nose at the flicky tuft of hair above Niall’s ear. “You’ve got a lovely smile.”

“Says you.” Niall yawns into his pillow.

Zayn’s eyes are closed. It takes him a while to respond to that, and tucked into the quiet he says tentatively, “I love you.”

The night life peeks in between curtains left open, ghosting over the ceiling, casting a breathy, colourful glow over the room rather than intruding obnoxiously. Niall’s toes are left uncovered by the duvet because otherwise he gets too hot, and his guitar, his clothes, and his cellphone aren’t even out of his bags. He doesn’t pay attention to the thoughts of morning, if the boys come through and decide to slip into his giant bed for a snuggle and get a nasty shock (to be fair, though, Harry’d only get out to shuck off his own kit and then sneak back in again) and it doesn’t matter. Nothing matters—not the shows, not whether or not he’ll have to come out in a day or a week or a month, not the city lights that promise screaming fans pouring into the road outside their hotel come morning—but the _now_.

“I love you too, Zayn,” Niall says, sweet on his tongue because he doesn’t have to hold back anymore as he snuggles in.

* : ・ﾟ❧ ﾟ・: *

* * *

* : ・ﾟ❧ ﾟ・: *

“So I guess they made up,” Harry says, grin flashing at Louis.

“We shouldn’t tread on something so intimate and calm,” Louis nods.

Liam eyes them both fondly, even though it’s accompanied by a warning frown, leans against the doorframe to observe as the two eagerly fist the bottom corners of the duvet that’ve come untucked. He has the sense to look away though, through the rippling sound of the covers being torn away and the horrendous waterfall of swears that follows.

“ _Naked_ , you two are— oh my God, my eyes, my fucking _eyes_ ,” Louis shouts, rubbing his face.

To be honest, Harry handles it relatively well. He’s used to nudity, just stares as Zayn looks grumpy and Niall, equally annoyed with the disturbance at eight in the morning, pulls the duvet back up, even turning around to tuck them both in before flopping face-first into the pillow.

“So did you two get off with each—” he starts to ask before Louis butts in.

“You knew, you little shit, didn’t you?”

Liam grins mischievously and doesn’t deny it. Louis points at them and adds, “I’ve seen Niall’s morning glory, now. Are you happy, Liam? I am going to knock your teeth in as soon as I’m not blind anymore!” 

“Piss off,” slurs Zayn, hooking his arm tighter around Niall’s back.

“Yeah, can we not get some sleep?” the blonde grumbles, getting an empathetic, protective kiss on his cheek.

Above it all, Harry grins.

“What the hell are you smirking at, Curly?” Louis snaps, face still a scalding shade of crimson.

“Lou,” Harry says quietly, “I was right about them. You owe me twenty quid.”

“Oh, fuck off,” Louis cries. “Look, now they’re having a snog. I’m not sticking around for this.”

The other two follow when Niall moans obnoxiously loudly, chasing them out while Zayn laughs so hard that his nose scrunches up, forehead resting on Niall’s shoulder. He’s still grinning as he props himself up on his elbow and pulls a very pliant Niall onto his chest.

“Don’t think I’ve ever seen Louis so embarrassed,” Zayn snorts. “Proper red in the face and everything.”

“He’ll get over it. That’s what you get for barging in without knocking.” Cheek flush against the centre of Zayn’s chest, Niall says, “We smell. You want first shower?”

“Don’t mind. If you want a bit of space, I’ll wait here, but we could share one.” He adds quickly, “Only if you want to, though.”

They don’t go right away; there’s no rush. Niall nods off to an easy quiet with the sun blushing warmly on his back and Zayn stroking his hair, resting and peaceful and finally, _finally_ , he feels like everything’s going to be just fine.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am so happy to have finished this (I usually never finish my multi-chapters); what started out as a five hundred-word one-shot has gotten me so many lovely readers who I hope will return in future. Thank you all for being so wonderful and putting up with me :] x

**Author's Note:**

> Will update once a week.


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